,! 


UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 
Donated  in  memory  of 

John  W.    Snvder 

by 

His  Son  and  Daughter 


THE   VERSES    OF 
JAMES  W.  FOLEY 

VOL.  Ill 


THE    VERSES    OF 
JAMES  W.   FOLEY 


BOOK  OF  LIFE  AND  LAUGHTER 


AUTHOR'S   COMPLETE   EDITION 


R.  D.  HOSKINS,  Publisher 
Bismarck,  North  Dakota 


Copyright  1905,  1907,  1909,  1910, 1911,  by 
JAMES  W.  FOLEY 


TO  THE  TEACHERS  AND  PUPILS   IN   THE  SCHOOLS 

OF  MY  STATE 
WHO  HAVE  BEEN   A  CONTINUAL  INSPIRATION 

AND  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  NORTH  DAKOTA 
WHO   HAVE   HONORED  AND  ENCOURAGED   ME  BEYOND   MY 

ABILITY  TO  REWARD 
THESE  VERSES   ARE  DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

One  of  These  Days 15 

Technique 17 

Make  Believe 19 

Dead  Hopes  21 

Shams   22 

A  Toast  to  Merriment 24 

A  Midwinter  Pastoral 26 

A  Creed  29 

The  Soul  of  the  Dreamer 31 

A  Message  from  the  Night 33 

Just  How  it  Was 36 

Some  Truths  in  Homespun 37 

Forsaken  39 

Three  Visions 40 

Unmasked  41 

In  a  Little  While 42 

A  Mistaken  "Impression 43 

Not  Again  44 

When  Sarah  Plays 45 

A  Genealogical  Homily 47 

Smiles  Today  49 

Poor  Jim 50 

Winter  53 

If  We  Had  Thought 54 

II 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

Ballad  of  the  Rain 56 

Not  Dead 58 

The  Lovable  Lass  of  the  Grouchy  Old  Man 60 

Life,  Love  and  Death 62 

A  Vision  of  the  Little  Country  Town 64 

A  Human  Life 67 

From  the  Court  Records 69 

We  Forget 73 

The  Cynic's  Friends 75 

Mysteries    76 

Content  t 78 

The  Parted  Threads 79 

Winter  and  Summer 81 

Resignation  82 

The  Recruit  84 

Song  of  Endeavor 86 

Rainbows   87 

Taps   89 

An  Old  Fashioned  Girl 90 

Where  92 

The  Judgment  93 

At  the  War  Office 94 

The  Last  Appeal 95 

Contentment  97 

The  Death  of  Poetry 98 

Look  Up 100 

Dreams   102 

Indestructible  104 

A  Really  Pretty  Girl 105 

War  107 

12 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

The  Chosen  Ones  108 

The  Test  of  Fame 110 

The  Fool   112 

Lines  to  a  Moth 113 

An  Autumn  Reverie 115 

Lines  from  a  Critical  Friend 116 

The  Cost  of  Living 118 

The  Unsounded  Depths 120 

Compensation   121 

Dame  Fashion  122 

Sorrow  124 

Beneath  the  Snows 126 

Gladness  by  the  Way 127 

The  Optimist's  Feast 129 

The  Garden  of  Yesterday 131 

Some  Questions  for  You 133 

Home  : 134 

The  Reveries  of  a  Widow 136 

The  Old  Pump's  Farewell 137 

The  Heart's  Lost  140 

The  Voices  of  Song 141 

The  Song  of  the  Dinner  Bell 144 

The  Real  Issue  146 

The  Woes  of  the  Consumer 148 

Vanity  150 

The  Archer's  Shaft  153 

The  Despairing  Muse  154 

The  Toys  of  Yesteryear 156 

The  Secret   158 

Vanities  161 

13 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

The  Town  of  Impossibleville 163 

The  Toast  of  Merriment 166 

A  Plain  Little  Woman 168 

A  Friend  Went  Then 170 

Alone   171 

Trifles   173 

The  Graduate  175 

The  Place  Beyond  178 

Comrades  180 

The  Dissenters  182 

Aircastletown 184 

Yesterday    186 

The  Inexorable    187 

The  Death  of  Pride 188 

The  Fisherman   189 

A  Reflected  Diet 191 

The  Old  Subscriber 194 

A  Criticism 196 

Nemesis  197 

Spinning    199 

The  Gift  of  Charity 201 

The  Deserters  203 

Primrose  Parsley's  Household  Hints 205 

The  Leper  and  the  Bell 208 

Song  209 

The  Power  of  Love 210 

The  Dead   211 

The  Cup  Will  Pass 212 

The  Lost  Chance 213 

Lost  Opportunities  2M 

14 


ONE  OF  THESE  DAYS 

SAY  !  Let's  forget  it !  Let's  put  it  aside ; 
Life  is  so  large  and  the  world  is  so  wide  ; 
Days  are  so  short  and  there's  so  much  to  do ; 
What  if  it  was  false — there's  plenty  that's  true. 
Say !   Let's  forget  it !   Let's  brush  it  away 
Now  and  forever,  so  what  do  you  say? 
All  of  the  bitter  words  said  may  be  praise 
One  of  these  days. 

Say !   Let's  forgive  it !  Let's  wipe  off  the  slate. 
Find  something  better  to  ;cherish  than  hate. 
There's  so  much  good  in  the  world  that  we've  had, 
Let's  strike  a  balance  and  cross  off  the  bad. 
Say!   Let's  forgive  it,  whatever  it  be, 
Let's  not  be  slaves  when  we  ought  to  be  free, 
We  shall  be  walking  in  sunshiny  ways 
One  of  these  days. 

Say !   Let's  not  mind  it !   Let's  smile  it  away ; 
'Bring  not  a  withered  rose  from  yesterday ; 
Flowers  are  so  fresh  by  the  wayside  and  wood. 
Sorrows  are  blessings  but  half  understood; 
Say !  Let's  not  mind  it,  however  it  seems ; 
Hope  is  so  sweet  and  holds  so  many  dreams ; 
All  of  the  sere  fields  with  blossoms  shall  blaze 
One  of  these  days. 


ONE   OF  THESE   DAYS 

Say !  Let's  not  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart ; 
Hates  may  be  friendships  just  drifted  apart. 
Failure  be  genius  not  quite  understood; 
We  could  all  help  folks  so  much  if  we  would. 
Say !  Let's  get  closer  to  somebody's  side, 
See  what  his  dreams  are  and  learn  how  he  tried  ; 
See  if  our  scoldings  won't  give  way  to  praise 
One  of  these  days. 

Say !  Let's  not  wither !  Let's  branch  out  and  rise 
Out  of  the  byways  and  nearer  the  skies. 
Let's  spread  some  shade  that's  refreshing  and  deep 
Where  some  tired  traveler  may  lie  down  and  sleep. 
Say !   Let's  not  tarry !  Let's  do  it  right  now ; 
So  much  to  do  if  we  just  find  out  how ; 
We  may  not  be  here  to  help  folks  or  praise 
One  of  these  days ! 


16 


TECHNIQUE 

I  TAKE  a  little  bunch  of  words  and  set  'em  in  a  row, 
I  take  a  little  bit  of  ink  and  mark  'em  down  just  so; 
I  take  a  little  time  and  pains  and  then  I  have  a  verse 
That  starts  about  like  this  one  does  or  maybe  slightly 

worse. 
And  then  I  go  back  to  the  start  and  criss  and  cross  and 

scratch 
And  vaccinate  my  words  until  I  find  me  some  that 

match 
The  pretty  thoughts  that  dart  about  like  silver  fish 

and  shine, 
But  need  a  patient,  watchful  hook  to  get  'em  on  the 

line. 

My  thoughts  melt  into  words  sometimes — not  always 

— now  and  then, 
And  I  can  feel  'em  coming  down  my  arm  and  through 

my  pen, 

I  only  have  to  push  it  o'er  the  paper  and  it  spells 
For  you  and  all  my  other  chums  the  things  my  fancy 

tells; 
Just  like  a  boy  with  building  blocks,  I  move  my  words 

about 
When  I  have  something  in  my  mind  and  try  to  work 

it  out, 

Until  in  orderly  array  I  get  'em  in  a  row 
Just  as  I  think  they  ought  to  be  and  write  'em  down 

just  so. 

Vol.    Ill— 2  17 


TECHNIQUE 

And  so  just  with  some  words  I  paint  the  pictures  that 

I  think, 
The  boys  and  girls  who  live  in  me  and  set  'em  down  in 

ink, 
And  sometimes  there's  a  tear  in  it,  and  sometimes  there's 

a  smile, 
And  there  is  many  a  grassy  bank  and  many  a  vine 

grown  stile; 
And  many  a  lane  that  you  would  know  if  you  could  be 

with  me, 
To  look  right  where  my  pen  is  now  and  I  could  help 

you  see; 

I  merely  take  a  lot  of  words  and  place  'em  in  a  row 
And  build  such  pretty  things  if  I  can  get  'em  down 

just  so! 


18 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

LET'S  dream,  like  the  child  in  its  playing ; 

Let's  make  us  a  sky  and  a  sea  ; 
Let's  change  the  things  'round  us  by  saying 

They're  things  that  we  wish  them  to  be ; 
And  if  there  is  sadness  or  sorrow, 

Let's  dream  till  we  charm  it  away; 
Let's  learn  from  the  children  and  borrow 

A  saying  from  Childhood — "Let's  Play." 

Let's  play  that  the  world's  full  of  beauty ; 

Let's  play  there  are  roses  in  bloom; 
Let's  play  there  is  pleasure  in  duty 

And  light  where  we  thought  there  was  gloom ; 
Let's  play  that  this  heart  with  its  sorrow 

Is  bidden  be  joyous  and  glad; 
Let's  play  that  we'll  find  on  tomorrow 

The  joys  that  we  never  have  had. 


MAKE-BELIEVE 

Let's  play  that  regret  with  its  ruing 

Is  banished  forever  and  aye ; 
Let's  play  there's  delight  but  in  doing; 

Let's  play  there  are  flowers  by  the  way ; 
However  the  pathway  seem  dreary, 

Wherever  the  footsteps  may  lead ; 
Let's  play  there's  a  song  for  the  weary 

If  only  the  heart  will  give  heed. 

Let's  play  we  have  done  with  repining; 

Let's  play  that  our  longings  are  still ; 
Let's  play  that  the  sunlight  is  shining 

To  gild  the  green  slope  of  the  hill; 
Let's  play  there  are  birds  blithely  flinging 

Their  songs  of  delight  to  the  air ; 
Let's  play  that  the  world's  full  of  singing, 

Let's  play  there  is  love  everywhere. 


20 


DEAD  HOPES 

I  SHALL  have  treasures  from  far  distant  isles, 

When  my  ship  shall  come  in. 
Treasures  of  Hope  and  freight  of  sunny  smiles, 

When  my  ship  shall  come  in. 
What  ho,  my  lads !  Faith,  Effort  and  Good  Hope ! 
Fling  out  the  sail  and  heave  ye  forth  the  rope ! 
Good  cheer,  my  lads !  What  of  the  tempest's  din  ? 
Steer  true,  my  lads !   The  battle  we  shall  win, 

And  my  ship  shall  come  in ! 

Who  has  upon  the  deep  no  argosies 

That  someday  shall  come  in? 
Who  has  no  Hopes  upon  the  storm-lashed  seas 

That  someday  shall  come  in? 
Who  builds  no  signal  fire  along  the  shore? 
Who  prays  not,  in  the  storm's  unceasing  roar, 
That  Fortune  may  God-speed  his  craft  and  save 
His  freight  of  hope  from  rock  and  reef  and  wave, 

That  his  ship  may  come  in  ? 

Yet,  Ah !  The  ships  set  forth  upon  the  sea 

That  never  shall  come  in ! 
The  Hopes,  with  flashing  sails,  for  you  and  me, 

That  never  shall  come  in ! 
The  sad-eyed  ones  who  watch  above  the  wave 
O'er  the  vast  deep  of  life  which  is  the  grave 
For  [countless  throbbing  hopes !  The  trembling  lips 
That  quiver,  when  they  would  welcome  the  ships 

That  never  shall  come  in ! 


21 


SHAMS 

UPON  the  stage  it  is  our  task 

To  picture  nature,  true,  exact, 
'Tis  off  the  stage  we  don  the  mask, 

And  in  our  lives  we  needs  must  act. 

The  crown  and  robe,  the  shield  and  greave, 
The  player  fits  as  needs  his  art, 

Life  uses  only  to  deceive, 
The  trappings  but  conceal  the  part. 

The  footlight  beggar's  practiced  palms 
Outstretched,  beseeching,  speak  his  breed ; 

Life's  beggar,  proud,  conceals  his  alms 
And  with  a  lie  would  hide  his  need. 

The  studied  sigh,  the  grateful  art, 

The  practiced  ardor  in  the  eye 
Life  sweeps  aside  to  mask  its  heart, 

And  love,  unwilling,  acts  a  lie. 

The  tear  that  stamps  the  acted  woe, 

Unacted  sorrow  wipes  away; 
Pride  leans  the  heart  to  hollow  show, 

And  from  the  truth  brings  but  a  play. 


22 


SHAMS 

Grief's  cries  and  art-enacted  moans 
The  play's  set  hour  away  that  while, 

Life  hushes  with  forced  gayer  tones, 
And  cloaks  its  sadness  with  a  smile. 

Art's  vice  is  bold,  we  read  the  part 
With  ease  enacted  as  'tis  writ; 

Life's  vice  is  tinseled  o'er  with  art 
Tis  nature  plays  the  hypocrite. 

Art  mimics  life  in  all  its  plays, 

In  scheme  and  line,  in  plot  and  part; 

Life  sits  and  smiles  where  Art  portrays 
Itself — and  straightway  mimics  Art. 

Our  lives  are  lies,  as  curtains  hung, 
Truth  sees  the  sham  and  slinks  away, 

The  lies  and  lines  trip  from  the  tongue, 
The  artist,  Nature,  acts  a  play. 


A  TOAST  TO  MERRIMENT 

MAKE  merry !  Though  the  day  be  gray 
Forget  the  clouds  and  let's  be  gay ! 
How  short  the  days  we  linger  here : 
A  birth,  a  breath,  and  then — the  bier ! 
Make  merry,  you  and  I,  for  when 
We  part  we  may  not  meet  again ! 

What  tonic  is  there  in  a  frown? 

You  may  go  up  and  I  go  down, 
Or  I  go  up  and  you — who  knows 
The  way  that  either  of  us  goes? 

Make  merry !    Here's  a  laugh,  for  when 

We  part  we  may  not  meet  again. 

Make  merry !  What  of  frets  and  fears  ? 
There  is  no  .happiness  in  tears. 

You  tremble  at  the  cloud  and  lo! 

'Tis  gone — and  so  'tis  with  our  woe, 
Full  half  of  it  but  fancied  ills. 
Make  merry !  'Tis  the  gloom  that  kills. 


24 


A  TOAST  TO  MERRIMENT 

Make  merry!   There  is  sunshine  yet. 

The  gloom  that  promised,  let's  forget. 
The  quip  and  jest  are  on  the  wing, 
Why  sorrow  when  we  ought  to  sing? 

Refill  the  cup  of  joy,  for  then 

We  part  and  may  not  meet  again. 

A  smile,  a  jest,  a  joke — alas ! 

We  come,  we  wonder,  and  we  pass. 
The  shadows  fall ;  so  long  we  rest 
In  graves,  where  is  no  quip  or  jest. 

Good  day !  Good  cheer !  Good-bye !  For  then 

We  part  and  may  not  meet  again ! 


A  MIDWINTER  PASTORAL 

THE  frost  gleams  thick  on  the  window  pane, 

The  cart  wheels  creak  down  the  frozen  lane ; 

High  from  the  chimneys,  everywhere 

Rise  threads  of  smoke  to  the  biting  air ; 

The  barn  door  creaks  with  a  plaintive  twinge, 

Where  the  glistening  frost  tints  the  rusted  hinge. 

The  old  pump  cries — a  shivering  cry ; 

While  "Crunch!  Crunch!  Crunch!"  tramp  the  horses 

by. 

The  chore  boy  shivers  as  he  stands 
And  beats  his  sides  with  his  mittened  hands; 
While  the  ice  forms  thick  on  the  old  pump  spout, 
As  the  glistening  water  gushes  out. 

There's  hoarfrost  deep  on  the  great  ox  yoke, 
And  the  breath  of  the  oxen  comes  like  smoke; 
The  clothes  hang  stiff  on  the  swaying  line, 
And  the  house  dog  stands  with  a  piteous  whine 
At  the  closed  storm  door ;  and  the  milk  cows  wait 
With  huddled  bulks  at  the  barnyard  gate. 

26 


A    MIDWINTER    PASTORAL 

The  prying  youngster,  unafraid, 

Dares  tip  his  tongue  to  the  frosted  blade 

Of  the  axe  that  lies  at  the  chopping-block ; 

The  erstwhile  strut  of  the  barnyard  cock 

Is  only  a  stiff  and  stilted  round 

As  he  picks  his  toes  from  the  frozen  ground. 

There's  snow  inch-deep  where  the  cows  once  browsed, 
There's  frost  nail-thick  on  the  beasts  unhoused. 
The  chore  boy  stamps  in  the  drifted  snows 
To  coax  the  warmth  to  his  tingling  toes, 
As  he  drives  his  fork  in  the  sodden  hay, 
And  the  day  is  gray  in  a  gloomy  way. 

There's  a  "Crunch !"  and  "Crunch !"  as  footsteps  stalk 
Down  the  sounding  length  of  the  pine  board  walk. 
The  well  wheel  squeaks  with  a  frosty  note 
And  the  well  rope's  stiff  with  an  icy  coat ; 
The  gathered  oxen  drink  their  fill 
With  updrawn  backs,  and  a  shiver  chill. 

The  shed  door  creaks  with  a  shivering  sound, 
As  the  soapsuds  splash  on  the  frozen  ground 
Where  a  pail  from  the  half-bared  arms  is  swung 
Of  the  kitchen  maid,  who  gives  quick  tongue 
In  a  treble  "B-r-r-r-h-h !"  and  a  grateful  change 
Soon  finds  at  the  glow  of  the  kitchen  range. 


A   MIDWINTER    PASTORAL 

The  chore  boy  beds  his  beasts,  and  then 
Shoos  back  to  its  perch  a  vagrant  hen; 
The  sodden  snow  from  his  feet  he  knocks 
Ere  he  piles  the  depths  of  the  great  wood-box 
With  snowy  sticks;  and  when  'tis  laid 
He  steals  a  kiss  from  the  kitchen  maid. 

The  fields  are  white  and  the  earth  is  dead ; 
The  frost  snaps  time  to  the  chore  boy's  tread, 
Stands  thick,  like  snow,  on  the  window  pane, 
And  the  cart  wheels  creak  down  the  frozen  lane. 
While  rise  from  the  chimneys  everywhere 
Thin  threads  of  smoke  on  the  frosty  air. 


A  CREED 

To  BE  earnest;  to  be  strong; 
To  make  light  the  way  with  song ; 
Slow  to  anger;  quick  to  praise; 
Walking  steadfast  through  the  days, 
Firm  of  purpose,  sure  of  soul, 
Pressing  onward  to  the  goal, 
Upright,  even,  undismayed, 
Sure,  serene  and  unafraid. 

To  be  patient;  to  be  kind; 
Tojbe  purposeful,  and  find 
Sweetness  all  along  the  way ; 
Loath  to  judge,  but  firm  to  say 
Truth  with  unrelenting  tongue; 
By  no  cavil  veered  or  swung 
From  the  right ;  and  to  endure 
Hopeful,  helpful,  clean  and  pure. 


29 


A  CREED 

To  be  gentle;  to  forgive; 
True  to  life  and  glad  to  live; 
To  be  watchful  and  to  be 
Rich  with  boundless  charity ; 
To  be  humble  in  success, 
Strong  of  heart  in  bitterness, 
Tender,  gracious,  thoughtful,  good 
In  our  man-and-womanhood. 

To  be  smiling,  to  be  glad 
For  the  yesterdays  we've  had; 
To  be  grateful  all  the  way 
For  the  beauties  of  today; 
To  be  hopeful  and  to  see 
In  the  days  that  are  to  be, 
Bigger,  better,  broader  things, 
Robes  of  purple,  crowns  of  kings! 


ONLY  the  soul  of  the  dreamer, 

Linked  with  the  heart  of  a  child ; 
Nothing  of  riches  but  sweetness, 

Sweetness  that  spoke  when  it  smiled; 
Naught  of  success  that  is  worldly, 

Nothing  of  riches  it  had, 
Only  the  soul  of  a  dreamer, 

That  threaded  the  mists  and  was  glad. 

Only  the  soul  of  a  dreamer, 

That  rose  from  the  earth  to  the  sky; 
Roamed  with  the  clouds  and  the  sunbeams, 

Sang  where  the  swift  swallows  fly; 
Lands,  it  had  not,  nor  the  castles, 

Haughtily  reared  stone  by  stone ; 
Only  the  soul  of  a  dreamer 

That  prized  all  the  earth  as  its  own. 

Only  the  soul  of  a  dreamer, 

Lifted^up  out  of  the  mire; 
Up  from  the  deeps,  dense  and  dismal, 

Into  the  nobler  and  higher; 
Marred  not  by  greed  or  contention, 

No  struggling  beast  o'er  a  bone, 
Seeking  but  sweetness  and  silence, 

Peace — and  its  dreamings  alone. 


THE   SOUL   OF   THE   DREAMER 

Only  the  soul  of  a  dreamer, 

Dreaming  of  peace  and  content; 
Love  that  engulfs  every  weakness, 

Earth  and  its  bitterness  blent, 
Blent  with  the  sweetness  of  Heaven, 

Only  the  far-fleeting  eyes 
Far-fleeting  eyes  of  the  dreamer 

See  from  the  earth — Paradise. 

Only  the  soul  of  the  dreamer, 

Up  from  the  din  and  the  dust; 
Out  of  the  shock  of  the  battle, 

Up  from  the  levels  of  lust, 
Only  the  soul  of  the  dreamer, 

Naught  of  earth's  riches  it  had, 
But  it  sped  with  the  song  and  the  sunshine 

Into  the  skies — and  was  glad. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  NIGHT 

SWEETHEART  of  mine,  could  I  steal  back  to  thee, 
Back  through  the  misted  deeps,  from  Spiritland ; 
Or  could  I  wing  a  whisper,  tremblingly. 
A  message  thou  couldst  hear  and  understand; 
No  words  save  only  these  I'd  breathe  to  air, 
Soft  as  the  drowsy  summer  winds  might  sigh, 
Light  as  the  nestling  roses  in  thy  hair : 
"Sweetheart  of  mine,  I  love  thee — do  not  cry." 

Mother  of  mine,  could  I  look  back  to  thee, 

To  see  thee  sitting  silent  and  alone, 

In  the  half-light,  half-night,  and  [could  I  see 

Thy  tear-wet  cheek,  and  hear  the  heart-wrung  moan ; 

Ah,  Mother  mine,  if  I  could  whisper  low 

A  message  from  that  Otherwhere,  to  fly 

Upon  the  wings  of  Love,  the  song  would  blow: 

"Mother  of  mine,  I  love  thee — do  not  cry." 

Vol.  in— 3  33 


A  MESSAGE   FROM   THE   NIGHT 

Father  of  mine,  could  I  call  back  to  thee, 
Back  through  the  silent  mists  and  sombre  shade, 
When  thou  art  cloaked  in  Grief  and  Memory, 
Thy  heart  with  mine  in  the  deep  darkness  laid ; 
Could  I  from  the  sad  silence  speak  and  say 
The  words  that  wake  within  my  heart,  to  dry 
Those  unshed  tears,  close  to  thine  ears  I'd  lay 
My  lips — "Father,  I  love  thee — do  not  cry." 

Oh,  Love  of  mine,  where  e'er  thou  art  or  how 
Thou  wert  in  lifetime  linked  unto  me, 
Could  I  from  the  far  distance,  on  thy  brow 
Lay  soft  a  spirit  hand  and  lovingly 
Speak  to  thee,  light  as  leaf  upon  the  air 
Floats  down,  or  light  as  sleeping  lilies  lie 
Upon  the  eddying  waters,  thou  wouldst  share 
My  message:  "Sweet,  I  love  thee — do  not  cry." 


34 


JUST  HOW  IT  WAS 

"Now,  just  let  me  see: 

Seems  to  me  that  'twas  she 

Objected  to  something 

That  he  did.    Or  he 

Objected  to  her  having 

Someone  to  tea. 

No !    Now  isn't  that  queer  ? 

I  know  I  did  hear 

Just  the  way  that  it  was, 

But  it's  left  me,  I  fear. 

"No!    It  comes  to  me  now: 
It  seems  this  was  the  how 
Of  it :  Something  he  did 
That  she  wouldn't  allow. 
Or  it  was  her  old  folks 
That  started  the  row? 
No!    Now  that  isn't  right, 
I  know  that's  not  quite 
The  way  that  Miss  Gadaround 
Told  me  last  night. 

35 


JUST   HOW   IT   WAS 

"Ah !    Now  I  recall 

The  gossip  and  all : 

It  seems  that  one  night 

When  he  went  there  to  call — 

'Twas  last  Spring,  I  think, 

Or  was  it  this  Fall  ? 

Oh,  well,  anyway 

What  I  started  to  say 

Was  that — she — well, 

My  memory's  awful  to-day! 

"Now,  how  did  she  tell 

Me  that?  Well,  well!   Well!   Well! 

You  know  she  got  her  story 

Right  straight  from  Nell. 

But  I  can't  quite  recall  now 

Just  what  she  did  tell 

Me  last  night.    Anyway, 

Whichever  it  may 

Be,  the  wedding  is  off, 

As  I  started  to  say !" 


SOME  TRUTHS  IN  HOMESPUN 

BE  wise,  and  envy  not  the  man 

Attired  however  spick  and  span, 

True  greatness  empty  fripperies  but  scorns; 

Silk  hats  may  serve  alone  to  dress 

A  noddle  full  of  emptiness, 

And  patent  leathers  hide  a  wealth  of  corns. 

No  garments,  fine  they  be,  yet  can 

Make  lady  or  make  gentleman, 

No  garb,  how  poor  it  be,  can  ever  hide 

The  mark  of  true  nobility, 

Nor  velvet  cloak,  but  we  may  see 

The  boor,  once  its  rich  folds  are  dropped  aside. 

No  lady  yet  was  made  with  lace 
Or  silk,  for  Nature  leaves  a  trace 
That  every  artifice  is  vain  to  hide ; 
The  lady  is,  in  calico, 
Not  less  the  gentlewoman,  though 
She  had  no  mark  of  gentleness  beside. 

The  practiced-oft  deception  thin 

By  asses  in  a  lion's  skin 

In  some  unthinking  bray  with  ease  we  read ; 

A  vulture,  be  he  decked  and  dressed 

With  plumes  from  any  eagle's  crest 

Betrays,  in  seeking  carrion,  his  breed. 


37 


SOME  TRUTHS   IN   HOMESPUN 

Count  no  man  your  superior, 

Whatever  his  exterior, 

Appearance  of  true  worth  is  not  a  rule ; 

The  jester's  cap  and  jingling  bell 

Full  many  a  gem  of  wisdom  tell, 

And  wisdom's  mortarboard  may  deck  a  fool. 

A  king,  by  right  and  nature  grown, 
Is  king  without  a  crown  or  throne, 
Simplicity  but  marks  his  kingliness; 
No  crown  or  throne  or  signet  ring, 
Can  make  a  knave  seem  more  a  king, 
The  purple  only  makes  him  seem  the  less. 

The  boor,  of  any  style  or  ilk, 

Is  but  the  greater  boor  in  silk, 

The  garb  but  marks  the  more  his  boorishness; 

No  person  ever  yet  that  rose 

Above  himself  by  help  of  clothes, 

The  manner  makes  the  man,  and  not  the  dress. 


FORSAKEN 

HIGH  in  the  tree  is  an  empty  nest 

Whence  the  fledgelings  of  yesterday  are  flown ; 
Hovers  a  bird  in  a  vague  unrest, 

Wondering,  it  may  be,  and  all  alone. 

Wondering,  it  may  be,  or  East  or  West 

Or  South  or  North  swept  the  wings  untried, 

Wondering  over  an  empty  nest 

And  the  blue  of  the  infinite  sky,  so  wide. 

High  in  the  attic  's  a  trundle  bed 

Whence  the  child  of  a  Yesterday  is  flown ; 

Hovers  a  woman,  with  tears  unshed, 
Wondering,  it  may  be,  and  all  alone. 

Wondering,,,  it  may  be,  or  East  or  West 

Or  South  or  North  roams  the  youth  untried, 

Wondering  over  an  empty  nest, 
And  an  empty  heart ; —  and  the  world  so  wide ! 


39 


THREE  VISIONS 


A  WAILING  mite  of  mystery 

That  in  a  cradle  cries ; 
A  bud,  Time-opened,  where  to  see 

A  soul  that  sleeping  lies  ; 
A  throbbing  lump,  that  wonderingly 

But  stares  with  vacant  eyes. 

II 

A  restless  Longing  and  a  Sigh 

That  yearns  and  yearns  and  yearns ; 

A  flame,  fierce-fed,  and  flaring  high 
That  burns  and  burns  and  burns; 

A  soul,  God-given,  with  a  cry, 
Returns,  returns,  returns. 

Ill 

A  shrouded  shape  that  senseless  lies 

Soul-silent  in  the  mists ; 
That  coldly  mocks  at  tears  and  sighs, 

Nor  knows,  nor  wills,  nor  lists; 
A  senseless  thing,  with  lightless  eyes 

And  ribbons  on  its  wrists. 


40 


UNMASKED 

LIFE  is  a  fruit,  and  only  fair  to  view, 
Eaten  by  worms  of  discontentment  through. 

Love  is  a  dream,  wherein  Grief  waits  beside 
The  sleeper — only  Sorrow  multiplied. 

Fame  is  a  crown  of  roses  that  adorns 
Unworthy  brows,  to  prick  them  with  its  thorns. 

Genius  a  child  that  knows  no  cast  or  creed, 
A  flame  that  wise  men  shun  and  fools  but  feed. 

Hope  is  a  scourge  that  Disappointment  wields, 
To  drive  men  on  into  her  thistle  fields. 

Joy  is  a  sweet  illusion,  Heaven  sent, 
To  snatch  away  and  nourish  discontent. 

Honor  a  stranger,  from  the  feast  shut  out 
That  men  dream  of,  and  poets  write  about. 

Success  a  throne — a  brass  and  tinsel  thing. 
The  knave  sits  on  and  thinks  himself  a  king. 

Conscience,  the  while  a  priest,  the  while  a  knave, 
The  fool  makes  master  and  the  wise  man  slave. 

Death  is  the  mirror  where  Sin  sees  its  error, 
Wise  men  see  peace,  and  only  fools  see  terror. 


IN  A  LITTLE  WHILE 

'Tis  only  for  a  little  while, 

This  life,  a  mingled  sob  and  smile ; 

The  heart  that  throbs  so  warm  today 

Tomorrow  ebbs  its  life  away. 

A  moment  hums  life's  busy  loom, 

Then  hushed  and  silent  in  the  tomb; 

And  wields  the  sceptre,  sob  or  smile, 

For  such  a  little,  little  while. 

Youth  rears  in  hope  a  castled  pile 
To  rise  for  such  a  little  while ; 
Fate  lays  in  dust  its  tow'ring  walls, 
Ambitious  spires  and  gilded  halls; 
Pride's  swelling  crest,  now  plumed  high, 
Now  stricken  low,  prays  God  to  die ; 
Time  leads  the  saddened  heart  to  smile 
In  such  a  little,  little  while. 

Life's  little  candle  feebly  glows, 
Life's  little  current  quickly  flows, 
A  moment  heaves  the  troubled  breath, 
The  candle  finds  its  socket,  Death. 
The  flushing  cheek,  the  radiant  eye, 
Dim,  lustreless,  and  cold  shall  lie, 
And  yet  those  pallid  lips  shall  smile 
With  God  in  such  a  little  while. 


42 


A  MISTAKEN  IMPRESSION 

SHE  was  kissing  a  picture — I  saw  her,  I  saw  her, 
She  sat  at  her  desk  and  the  door  was  flung  wide ! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture — Oh,  horror!    Oh,  horror! 
Oh,  Woman,  must  faithlessness  with  thee  abide? 

She  was  kissing  a  picture,  I  know  it,  I  know  it! 

The  love  light  upon  it  glanced  bright  from  her  eyes ! 
Oh,  Traitress,  I'll  face  thee!  Thou'lt  show  it!  Thou'lt 
show  it! 

Aye,  'front  her  I  will  with  the  deed !  Then  she  dies ! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture !  She  hides  it !  She  hides  it ! 

Down  deep  in  a  drawer  and  she's  turning  a  key. 
Now  death  and  destruction  betides  it,  betides  it! 

And  woe  whom  it  pictures  when  he  shall  face  me! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture !  She's  going !  She's  going ! 

I'll  bide  till  she's  gone  and  I'll  steal  it  away! 
Oh,  jealousy's  fury  that's  glowing,  that's  glowing 

Within  me !   Oh,  doom  that  has  found  me  this  day ! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture !  I'll  take  it,  I'll  take  it 
And  flash  in  her  face  this  damned  image  she  loves! 

The  desk!  It  is  locked!  Well,  I'll  break  it,  I'll  break  it 
And  find  me  this  card  that  her  faithlessness  proves ! 

She  was  kissing  a  picture !  I've  found  it,  I've  found  it ! 

(Be  quiet  my  heart  and  be  silent  this  moan!) 
With  letters  and  flowers  around  it,  around  it ! 

Why!    What!  !    Well,  I'm  jiggered!  !  !    The  pic- 
ture's my  own ! 

43 


NOT  AGAIN 

FAITH  comes  the  once  and  not  again, 
And  confidence ;  the  heart  is  vain 
To  nurse  to  life  the  trust  once  slain. 

Honor  comes  once  and  not  again, 
Sin  spotted  now,  all  Time  is  vain 
To  cleanse  and  wipe  away  the  stain. 

Love  comes  the  once  and  not  again, 
Word-wounded  now,  the  heart  is  vain 
To  heal  the  scar  or  dull  the  pain. 

Pure  hearts  come  once  and  not  again, 
Tears,  sighs,  regrets,  to  cleanse  are  vain 
The  soul  that  in  the  slime  has  lain. 

All  flawless  jewels,  lightly  tossed 
Aside,  yet,  ah,  the  bitter  cost 
Of  tears  once  any  jewel  lost! 


44 


WHEN  SARAH  PLAYS 

Now  Sarah  sits  at  eventide, 

When  day  its  glory  sees 
In  twilight,  and  her  fingers  glide 

Like  fairies  o'er  the  keys. 
The  old  piano's  mellow  notes, 

Like  voices,  through  the  haze, 
Speak  to  me,  and  a  vision  floats 

Before  me  as  she  plays. 

The  keys  are  yellowed  with  the  years, 
Yet  rise  and  fall  like  leaves ; 

The  tones  are  mellowed  as  the  tears 
That  flow  on  as  she  weaves 

With  fingers  deft  and  fanciful, 
Her  wreaths  of  melodies, 

And  all  the  harsher  notes  are  still 

The  while  she  tempts  the  keys. 

» 

The  sweet,  half-silent  sounds,  alone 

Shut  out  the  din  of  day ; 
The  sting  of  sorrow's  pain  has  flown, 

Its  pleasures  only  stay; 
The  misted  eye  roves  down  the  years, 

Their  every  gladness  sees ; 
Not  sweeter  than  the  joys  of  tears 

Her  fairy  melodies. 


45 


WHEN    SARAH    PLAYS 

Light  as  the  rustling  wind  that  strays 

Where  floats  the  falling  leaf, 
The  treble  shrill  of  joy  she  plays 

And  the  deep  bass  of  grief; 
Half  shadowed,  in  the  dying  light, 

A  witch's  spell  she  lays 
Upon  my  heart,  its  subtle  might 

To  bind  me  as  she  plays. 

Now  odors  sweet  and  fanciful 

Are  wafted  on  the  air, 
And  flowers  withered  long  and  dull 

A  fresher  fragrance  bear ; 
A  deeper,  denser,  perfume  clings, 

The  memories  of  the  days 
Departed  now,  and  gladness  brings 

Me  glories  as  she  plays. 

A  very  witchery  of  peace, 

Lulls  every  sigh  to  sleep ; 
The  yearnings  die,  the  longings  cease, 

While  Rest  descends,  a  deep 
And  velvet  cloak;  then  silently 

Sweet  Comfort  comes  and  lays 
Her  velvet  scheek  and  kisses  me 

The  while  that  Sarah  plays. 


46 


A  GENEALOGICAL  HOMILY 

You  may  believe  'tis  true  that  your  coursing  blood  is 

blue, 
But  science  stern  assures  us  that  all  healthy  blood 

is  red ; 

And  the  longest  pedigree  that  grows  on  a  family  tree 
Isn't  half  as  beneficial  as  a  good,  long  head. 

You  may  refer  with  pride  to  your  ancestors,  beside 
Whose  fame  your  light  is  dim,  for  letters,  art,  or 

pelf, 

But  I  trust  you  will  believe  it  is  nobler  to  achieve 
Enough  that  you  may  be  some  time  an  ancestor 
yourself. 

The  watch  dog  well  who  serves  and  who  carefully 

observes 
The  strangers  who  approach  and  wakes  the  family 

with  his  bark, 
Tho'  he  had  no  pedigree  is  a  better  dog  for  me 

Than  the  dog  that  sleeps,  e'en  tho'  his  ancestors  were 
in  the  Ark. 

It  is  right  that  you  admire,  and  admiring,  you  aspire 
To  trace  a  noble  pathway  in  your  genealogy, 

But  permit  me  to  assure  that  no  person,  rich  or  poor, 
Ever  plucked  a  plum  of  greatness  off  the  grandest 
family  tree. 


47 


A    GENEALOGICAL   HOMILY 

The  man  who  is  a  king,  duke,  or  lord,  or  anything 
That's  noble,  tho'  his  ancestors  were  cobblers  at  the 

last, 
Has  a  much  more  honored  way  in  this  little  world 

today 

Than  the  cobbler  whose  ancestors  governed  king- 
doms in  the  past. 

And  full  many  a  man  today,  to  whom  honor  we  might 
pay, 

Has  been  overcome  in  living  up  to  a  proud  ancestry ; 
And  full  many  a  man  been  laid  in  an  everlasting  shade 
By  the  branches  of  a  towering,  spreading,  ancient 
family  tree. 

So  don't  take  it  much  to  heart  when  a  man  takes  you 

apart 

And  tells  you  he  was  bred  'mid  aristocracy's  en- 
virons ; 
Tho'  his  ancestors  came  o'er  in  the  Mayflower  to  this 

shore, 

The  log  book,  still,  may  show  that  every  one  came 
o'er  in  irons. 


48 


SMILES  TODAY 

FATE,  would  thou  wert  a  flower  lass, 
Bright-eyed,  red  cheeked,  and  as  we  pass 
With  heavy  hearts,  would  thou  mightst  cry 
Thy  wares  of  smiles  and  we  might  buy : 

"Smiles  today!    Smiles  today! 
Smi-i-les !  Swe-ee-eet  smi-i-les  to  coax  away 
Thy  cares !  Light  hearts !  This  way !  This  way ! 
Oh  who  will  buy  my  smiles  today !" 

Ah,  more  than  busy  wouldst  thou  stand 
To  deal  them  out  with  lavish  hand, 
Could  every  sad  heart  hear  thy  cry 
And  of  thy  wares  might  choose  and  buy: 

"Smiles  today !   Smiles  today ! 
Smiles!   Swee-eet  smi-i-les  to  lure  away 
The  sting  of  sorrow !   Hearts  made  gay ! 
Oh  who  will  buy  my  smiles  today !" 


Vol.  in— 4  49 


POOR  JIM 

IN  a  New  England  commonwealth,  while  knocking 
'round  for  strength  and  health, 

I  boarded  with  a  widow  dame  (of  course  I  can't  dis- 
close her  name), 

An  acid  creature,  gaunt  and  grim,  who  lived  alone  with 
one  son,  Jim. 

A  freckled,  awkward,  red-haired  chap,  not  reared  ex- 
actly in  the  lap 

Of  luxury,  or  taught  to  know  affection's  honeyed 
overflow. 

And  oft  my  rose-hued  fancy's  dreams  were  rudely 
shattered  by  the  screams 

Wild  from  the  wood-shed  forth  which  came.  And  then 
my  stern,  ascetic  dame, 

Smoothing  the  wrinkles  from  her  lap  and  waving  high 
a  leathern  strap, 

Emerged,  and  said  in  accents  grim :  "Feel  better  now, 
I've  paddled  Jim." 

Day  in,  day  out,  that  same  assault,  whate'er  the  wrong 
or  whose  the  fault. 

If  any  boarder  sought  by  night  to  liquidate  his  debt 
in  flight, 

My  acid  widow  from  her  grief  in  flogging  Jim  found 
swift  relief. 

Whene'er  in  anger,  'twas  her  wont  to  strap  that  awk- 
ward little  runt. 


POOR   JIM 

The  beef  was  tough,  the  bread  was  burned — at  once 

my  lady  quickly  turned, 
Until  she  spied  the  trembling  Jim ;  her  claw-like  ringers 

gobbled  him, 
Swift  to  the  wood-shed  bore  him  out,  aloft  she  swung 

her  leathern  knout, 
And  then  emerged,  tall,  sour,  and  grim :   "Feel  better 

now,  I've  paddled  Jim." 

Poor  Jim,  a  child  of  sores  and  salve,  served  as  a  con- 
stant safety  valve. 
Perhaps  my  lady  angered  came  from  quarrel  with  some 

neighbor  dame; 
Or  worsted  in  some  church  debate;  arose,  perchance, 

a  little  late; 
The  butcher's  bill  was  deemed  too  large;  the  grocer's 

trifling  overcharge 
Conspired  to  rouse  my  lady's  ire ;  her  lips  were  drawn 

her  eyes  flashed  fire; 
Straightway  the  luckless  Jim  was  sought,  the  strap 

from  out  the  kitchen  brought, 
Jim  laid  across  his  mother's  lap;  shrill  whistled  then 

the  leathern  strap. 
Until  she  breathed  in  accents  grim :  "Feel  better  now, 

I've  paddled  Jim." 


POOR    JIM 

But  once  my  lady's  accents  shrill  were  silenced;  she 
was  stricken  ill. 

Her  lungs  distressed,  she  strove  for  breath,  and  hov- 
ered between  life  and  death. 

The  doctors  pondered  in  dismay;  they  held  no  hope 
and  saw  no  way 

To  save  my  lady's  life.  More  grim  and  gaunt  she  grew, 
and  little  Jim 

Was  called  to  say  his  last  good-bye.  She  spied  him 
with  a  brighter  eye, 

Swift  seized  him,  drew  him  'cross  her  lap,  and  called 
the  nurse  to  bring  the  strap. 

At  eve  the  doctor,  calling  'round,  miraculous  improve- 
ment found. 

"I  feel,"  she  whispered  low  to  him,  "much  better  since 
I  paddled  Jim." 


WINTER 

GRIEVE  ye  not.  The  flowers  are  not  dead, 
Their  beauty  fades  but  for  a  little  while. 

Grieve  ye  not.   The  leafless  branches  spread, 
The  Mother,  Spring,  shall  waken  with  her  smile. 

Grieve  ye  not.  Tho'  still  the  fettered  lake, 
Ice-locked  and  silent,  voiceless,  cold,  and  gray, 

The  Spring  again  its  melody  shall  wake, 
And  all  its  waves  shall  whisper  to  the  day. 

Grieve  ye  not.    If  from  the  sea  and  sky 

From  earth  the  air  a  whisper  wings  to  thee, 

And  tells  thee  thou  asleep  in  Death  shalt  lie, 
Spring  smiles  and  teaches  thee  Eternity. 


53 


IF  WE  HAD  THOUGHT 

IF  we  had  thought, 

How  much  of  good 
We  might  have  done. 

What  we  have  rued 
Of  haste  or  pride 

Or  anger  wrought, 
Might  not  have  been 

If  we  had  thought. 

The  hasty  word. 

That  hurt  a  heart, 
The  pride  that  made 

The  hot  tears  start, 
The  taunt  that  stung, 

The  anger  hot 
Might  have  been  spared 

If  we  had  thought. 

If  we  had  thought 

How  much  of  grief 
We  might  have  eased. 

What  sweet  relief 
To  aching  hearts 

We  might  have  brought 
In  sympathy 

If  we  had  thought. 

54 


IF   WE   HAD   THOUGHT 

If  we  .had  thought 

Some  means  each  day 
We  might  have  found 

To  smooth  the  way 
Of  some  tried  soul, 

Some  desert  spot 
We  might  have  cheered 

If  we  had  thought. 

And  yet  one  deed 

In  kindness  done, 
More  glory  brings, 

More  fame  has  won, 
That  countless  good 

We  would  have  wrought 
To  all  the  world 

If  we  had  thought. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  RAIN 

PUDDLES  and  pools  in  the  village  street, 

Dripping  eaves,  where  the  swallows  hide; 
The  splash  and  splash  of  horses'  feet 

Down  the  muddy  lane,  and  the  trees  beside, 
Sodden  and  soaked  till  the  raindrops  fall, 

Like  tears,  and  the  twigs  with  jewels  set 
Of  limpid  water,  and  over  all 

A  haze  of  mist,  like  a  cloak  all  wet. 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  great  oak  tree 

The  glistening  bulks  of  the  huddled  kine, 
Driven  from  the  pasture  and  rhythmically 

Munching  their  cuds,  and  their  broad  backs  shine, 
Drenched  and  matted  with  pelting  rain. 

Plaintively  sounding  a  lowing  wail; 
A  passing  team  in  a  muddy  lane 

And  a  muffled  and  melancholy  hail. 

Blinding  sheets  of  the  driven  rain; 

Mist  over  hollow  and  plain  and  hill ; 
Splashing  drops  on  the  misted  pane 

That  trickle  down  to  the  window  sill; 
Beaten  fowls  with  their  ruffled  crests, 

Crowding  close  to  the  sheltering  wall; 
Dripping  orchards  and  sodden  nests, 

With  mist  like  a  wet  cloak  over  all. 


BALLAD   OF   THE  RAIN 

The  herdsman  lowers  his  broad  hat  brim 

To  a  sheltering  slant,  and  the  raindrops  fall 
From  the  beaded  edge  of  the  lowered  rim 

To  the  oilskin  coat  that  envelopes  all 
His  length ;  the  guiding  collie  stops 

From  gathering  in  the  grazing  flocks 
To  shake  from  his  sides  the  glistening  drops 

That  mat  the  mass  of  his  silken  locks. 

The  eave  spout  gushes  its  frothy  streams, 

Whence  the  rain  barrel  fills  and  overflows 
Its  sides,  and  the  slate  roof  blacker  gleams 

Through  the  murk  and  mist;  the  housewife  goes 
From  room  to  room  lest  the  windows  be 

Unshut,  and  peers  through  the  sodden  pall 
Without,  and  the  rain  beats  endlessly, 

With  mist  like  a  wet  cloak  over  all. 

Sullen  and  sodden  and  soaked  and  splashed 

With  pelting  drops  lies  the  distant  field; 
The  roads  lie  heavy,  and  wet  steeds,  dashed 

With  mud,  where  a  carriage,  muddy-wheeled, 
Rolls  down  the  road,  and  the  drear  day  long 

The  weeping  clouds  no  comfort  hold. 
The  pelting  rain  dins  a  sullen  song 

And  the  day  is  gloomy,  gray,  and  cold. 


57 


NOT  DEAD 

THE  vase  is  broken, 
The  flower  is  dead, 

Its  petals  crumbled, 
Its  ashes  spread. 

Sweeps  its  ruins 

The  wandering  gust, 
The  leaf  to  ashes 

The  stalk  to  dust. 

Claims  its  ashes 
The  waiting  sod, 

But  something  lingers 
That  came  from  God- 

The  soul  of  the  flower 
That  lives  for  aye, 

The  scented  memory 
That  cannot  die. 

The  vase  is  broken 
The  life  is  dead. 

The  cold  clay  crumbles 
In  ashes  spread. 

58 


NOT    DEAD 

The  castle  totters, 
With  earth  is  blent 

The  offcast  mantle 
And  tenement. 

Claims  its  ashes 
The  waiting  sod, 

But  something  lingers 
That  came  from  God. 

The  something  voiceless, 

Shapeless,  vast, 
The  sweeter  perfume 

That  lives  at  last. 

In  dust  the  flower, 

The  life  is  fled, 
But  something  lingers 

And  is  not  dead. 


59 


THE  LOVABLE  LASS  OF  THE  GROUCHY 
OLD  MAN 

A  GROUCHY  and  crotchety,  fussy  old  man, 

Whose  stick  on  the  walk  beats  a  rat-a-tat-tat, 
The  cut  of  his  coat  on  an  old-fashioned  plan, 

A  shiny  red  nose  and  a  worn  beaver  hat. 
A  blare  of  defiance,  he  trumpets  his  nose, 

He  clears  his  hoarse  throat  with  a  he-he-he-hem ! 
But  the  girl  on  his  arm,  she's  as  fair  as  a  rose, 

How  grew  such  a  flower  on  such  a  gnarled  stem? 

He  bushes  his  eyebrows  and  scowls  upon  me, 

His  stick  with  a  click  beats  the  walk  as  we  pass, 
His  scowl  wastes  the  bloom  of  a  smile  that  I  see 

And  freezes  it  stiff  on  the  lips  of  the  lass. 
He  raises  his  hat  with  a  Chesterfield  air, 

The  sweep  of  his  arm  is  chill  courtesy's  sign; 
But  his  eyes  pass  me  by  with  an  unseeing  stare. 

If  blood  were  for  spilling,  he'd  dabble  in  mine. 

60 


THE  LOVABLE  LASS  OF  THE  GROUCHY  OLD  MAN 

There's  pride  in  the  white  crest,  uplifted  so  high, 

Defiant  the  tilt  of  the  old  beaver  hat. 
Contempt  in  the  stare  of  the  unknowing  eye, 

And  the  click  of  his  stick  with  its  rat-a-tat-tat. 
He  spurns  me,  he  scorns  me,  he  hates  me, — he  knows 

I'm  nursing  in  secret  some  pilfering  plan 
To  pluck  from  its  parental  arbor  the  rose 

That  rests  on  the  arm  of  this  fussy  old  man. 

So  he  passes  me  by  with  an  unseeing  stare, 

His  cane  beats  defiantly  rat-a-tat-tat. 
He  trumpets  his  nose  with  a  furious  blare, 

There's  pride  in  the  tilt  of  his  worn  beaver  hat. 
Love  may  laugh  at  locksmiths,  nor  hazard  a  care 

In  bridging  most  gulfs  of  despair  with  a  span, 
But  Love  needs  more  courage  than  mine  has,  I  swear, 

To  laugh  at  this  crotchety,  fussy  old  man. 


61 


LIFE,  LOVE  AND  DEATH 

LIVING  and  loving  and  dying, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
Smiling  or  sobbing  or  sighing, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me  ? 
Hoping  and  struggling  and  striving, 

Dreaming  success  by  and  by; 
But  whether  we're  driven  or  driving, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 

Aiming  and  hitting  and  missing, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
The  fickle  world  praising  or  hissing, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me? 
Striding  or  limping  or  creeping, 

Time  drives  us  heartlessly  by; 
Meeting  and  parting  and  weeping, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 


62 


LIFE,   LOVE  AND   DEATH 

Yearning,  rejoicing,  and  mourning, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
Sackcloth  or  garland  adorning, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me  ? 
The  web  of  our  little  day,  stretched, 

Meshes  a  sob  or  a  sigh; 
Joyful  or  joyless  or  wretched, 

.We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 

Wishing  and  fearing  and  fretting, 

Life  is  complete  in  the  three. 
The  world's  remembrance  or  forgetting, 

Which  is  for  you  or  for  me? 
Gnarled  and  knotted  and  tangled 

The  skeins  of  our  little  lives  lie; 
Mud-splattered  or  jewel-bespangled, 

We  live  and  we  love  and  we  die. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  LITTLE  COUNTRY 
TOWN 

HE  sits  there  at  the  fireside,  where  the  mellow  light  is 

gleaming 
O'er  the  columns  of  the  little  country  paper  that  he 

holds, 
And  something  he  has  read  there  seems  to  set  his  fancy 

dreaming, 

While  memory's  panorama  of  forgotten  days  un- 
folds. 

Its  quaint  and  homely  phrases  all  incline  him  to  re- 
flection ; 
Some  sweetness  of  enchantment  as  he  lays  the  paper 

down 

Strips  the  bitter  peel  of  sorrow  from  the  fruit  of  rec- 
ollection, 

He  tastes  the  mellow  sweetness  of  the  little  country 
town. 

He  sees,  at  even,  a  cottage  where  the  lamplight's  dimly 

straying 
Through   the   window,   thickly  bowered   with   the 

honeysuckle  vine; 
To  his  ears  come  strains  of  music — there's  a  sound 

of  someone  playing 

On  a  little  cottage  organ  and  the  notes  of  Auld 
Lang  Syne. 

64 


A  VISION   OF   THE   LITTLE   COUNTRY   TOWN 

He  hears  the  tea  things  clatter,  sees  a  woman's  figure 

flitting 
Here  and  there,  belike  some  fairy,  and  the  shimmer 

of  her  gown; 
And  longing  leads  his  fancy  to  the  place  where  he  is 

sitting 
Just  across  from  her  at  table  in  the  little  country  town. 

What  spell  lies  on  its  columns  ?  There  rise  lusty  tones 

and  laughing, 
A  rioting  of  young  folks  through  the  open  parlor 

door, 
The  place  resounds  with  revelry  and  badinage  and 

chaffing ; 

Someone  has  brought  his  fiddle  from  the  little  coun- 
try store. 
The  merry  songs  from  lad  and  lass  in  lusty  tones  are 

swelling, 
The  sparkling  cider  passes  in  the  earthen  jug  and 

brown ; 

What  silver-throated  eloquence  of  memory  is  telling 
The  story  of  the  glory  of  the  little  country  town  ? 

Yet  he  sits  here  alone,  where  all  the  dreamy  shadows 

dancing, 
And  silent,  save  for  voices  that  his  memory  may 

hear; 
The  eyes  that  o'er  the  columns  of  the  little  paper 

glancing, 
Like  violets,  dew-misted,  in  the  passing  of  a  tear. 

Vol.    Ill— 5  °5 


A  VISION   OF   THE   LITTLE   COUNTRY   TOWN 

For  some,  as  he,  are  missing  from  the  circle  once  un- 
broken. 
And  one  he  knows  lies  sleeping  where  the  autumn 

leaves  are  brown; 

His  hair  is  white,  like  silver,  yet  in  fancy  he  has  spoken 
With  all  those  lads  and  lasses  of  the  little  country 
town. 

The  misty  eye  of  sorrow  at  the  bush  of  dreams  is 

seeking 
The  rose  of  recollection  with  the  fragrance  of  its 

morn, 

And  in  the  ear  of  memory  the  voice  of  grief  is  speak- 
ing— 

The  hand  that  plucks  the  blossom  knows  the  sharp- 
ness of  the  thorn. 
His  dreams  die  with  the  embers  at  the  fireplace — ah, 

the  pity! 
The  paper  falls  from  listless  hands  and  idly  flutters 

down. 

How  lonely,  lonely,  lonely  is  the  sullen,  smoky  city, 
When  the  heart  has  come  from  straying  in  the  little 
country  town ! 


66 


A  HUMAN  LIFE 

A  SHIP  that  throbs  along  in  dire  distress 
Till  lost  in  oceans  of  forgetfulness. 
A  tangle  of  sweet  flowers  whose  petals  turn 
To  ash  of  unfulfillment  in  an  urn. 

A  wisp  of  tangled  threads,  whose  parted  ends 
No  deft  hand  joins,  no  endless  effort  mends. 
A  play  whose  fickle  players  merely  greet 
And  go  and  leave  the  story  incomplete. 

A  bud  that  opens  brilliant  at  the  dawn, 
Flings  sweet  perfume  a  moment  and  is  gone. 
A  breath  between  a  cradle  and  a  bier, 
The  blending  of  a  smile,  a  sob,  a  tear. 

A  book  whose  pages  turn  with  each  new  day, 
Till  Time  has  read  the  tale  and  cast  away. 
A  mask  worn  till  a  passing  play  is  done, 
To  cloak  a  wraith  and  hide  a  skeleton. 


A   HUMAN   LIFE 

A  lie,  whose  ghostly  semblance  is  .concealed 
Till  in  a  shroud  its  untruth  lies  revealed. 
A  thing  that  shapes  the  sod  for  a  brief  day 
And  dies  and  leaves  its  faithful  slave  more  clay. 

A  story  that  is  told  ere  'tis  begun, 

A  song  that  only  whispers  and  is  done; 

A  thing  that  chains  the  lightnings  and  that  stirs 

The  deep — the  elements  its  messengers. 

Lord  of  the  sea  and  sky,  a  ruler  proud 
That  quakes  at  storms  and  trembles  at  a  cloud; 
That  comes  and  goes  on  wings  unseen — a  germ 
That  grows  to  fill  a  grave  and  feed  a  worm. 


68 


FROM  THE  COURT  RECORDS 

YOUNG  Silas  Watkins  stole  a  ham — a  theft  most  rep- 
rehensible, 

And  then  engaged  a  counselor  (which  certainly  was 
sensible). 

They  plunged  him  in  a  dungeon  deep,  a  dungeon  grim 
and  terrorful, 

The  while  his  lawyer  went  to  court  upon  a  mission 
errorful. 

And  when  he  found  at  once  the  whole  proceeding 
could  be  "busted,"  he 

Sued  out  a  habeas  corpus  and  took  Silas  out  of  cus- 
tody. 

In   court   his   learned   counsel   urged   with   dignified 

suavity 
The  dangers  of  unseemly  haste  in  matters  of  such 

gravity. 

The  prosecution's  bitterness  he  held  unjustifiable, 
"  'Tis  Justice,  with  her  blinded  eyes,  before  whom  we 

are  triable !" 
And  after  hours  of  argument,  with  growing  heat  and 

frictional, 
He  took  a  change  of  venue  on  a  question  jurisdictional. 

Whereat  the  counsel  got  a  stay  of  trial  for  a  year  or 

two, 
To  find  a  missing  witness  (who  was  dead,  I  have  a 

fear  or  two). 

69 


FROM   THE   COURT   RECORDS 

The  years  rolled  on,  they  tried  him,  and  unmercifully 

depicted  him 
The  commonest  of  larcenists;  the  jury  then  convicted 

him. 
"No  chance  for  Silas !"  cried  his  lawyer.   "Yes,  I  say, 

indeed  he  has !" 
Upon  the  which  he  went  to  court  and  got  a  super- 

sedeas. 

"Good  cheer!"  said  he  to  Silas.  "You  will  soon  be 
on  your  feet  again." 

While  Silas  gave  a  bail  bond  and  was  straightway  on 
the  street  again. 

A  monstrous  abstract  then  they  filed,  the  lawyer  made 
a  noise  and  fuss, 

Until,  within  a  year  or  two,  the  court  gave  them  a 
syllabus, 

Which,  stripped  of  all  its  verbiage  and  law  and  tech- 
nicality, 

But  reaffirmed  the  verdict  based  on  Silas'  proved  ras- 
cality. 

"Odds  blood !"  cried  Silas'  counsel  to  his  client,  "When 
I've  read  you  this, 

You'll  see  the  entire  finding  simply  reeks  with  flaws 
and  prejudice. 

To  jail  shall  any  citizen  for  stealing  of  a  hock  be 
sent?" 

Straightway  the  which  he  went  to  cofu ..  and  filed  an- 
other document. 


70 


FROM    THE   COURT   RECORDS 

"No  sheriff  shall  arrest  him,  sir,  on  any  legal  sham  as 

grim 
As  this,  and  if  a  sheriff  tries,  I'll  certainly  mandamus 

him!" 

Again  upon  the  solemn  court,  with  masterful  urbanity, 
He  urged  a  close  inquiry  by  an  expert  on  insanity, 
Who  felt  the  bumps  on  Silas'  head,  who  found  pro- 
found rascality, 

Who  in  a  year  made  his  report  of  "obvious  normality." 
Long  Silas'  counsel  studied  it,  by  methods  not  re- 

vealable, 
And  finally  concluded  the  decision  was  appealable. 

Good  Silas  gave  another  bond  to  stay  his  jail  proces- 
sional ; 

Good  Silas'  counsel  labored  with  an  ardor  quite  pro- 
fessional, 

Until  he  got  an  order  from  the  highest  court  avail- 
able, 

"(That  as  the  statutes  read,  there  was  a  question  if 
'twas  jailable,) 

The  court  below  should  try  again,  and  though  they 
might  acquit  it,  or 

Convict  it,  they  must  try  again" — so  stated  the  re- 
mittitur ! 

The  witnesses,  those  gray  old  men,  recalled  the  ancient 

history 
Of  Silas'  crime  with  halting  speech,  and  deep  and  dark 

the  mystery 


FROM    THE   COURT   RECORDS 

To  them  of  why  they  were  recalled;  with  quavering 
tones,  in  truthfulness 

They  told  again  the  old,  old  tale  of  Silas'  erring  youth- 
fulness. 

The  jurors  held  he  could  not  change  his  spots,  but  like 
the  leopard  he; 

So  Silas'  counsel  straightway  held  he  had  been  twice 
in  jeopardy. 

Alas!    So  intricate  a  case,  with  all  the  points  involv- 

able! 
When  Death  took  Silas  and  to  dust  found  him  to  be 

resolvable. 
Took  him  for  reasons,  good,  perhaps,  but  which  were 

not  revealable, 
And   Silas'  counsel  found,  alack,  the  judgment  not 

appealable ! 
But  back  to  court  he  strode  when  sure  that  Charon 

o'er  had  ferried  him, 
And  cried:    "I  want  a  nol.  pros,  for  my  client — we 

have  buried  him!" 


72 


WE  FORGET 

WE  lift  Grief's  brimming  beaker  up, 
We  drain  the  deep  dregs  from  the  cup, 
And  while  our  lips  with  gall  still  wet 
We  vow  remembrance — and   forget. 

We  drink  of  Pleasure's  nectar  sweet, 
We  tread  her  clouds  with  winged  feet, 
And  while  the  tingling  pulses  yet 
Throb  to  her  music — we  forget. 

A  faith  we  pledge,  a  vow  we  plight, 
Ah  me!    How  more  than  featherlight 
Our  pledges  weight  our  souls — ere  yet 
The  echoes  falter — we  forget. 

We  leash  the  beast  ingratitude 
In  better  while,  in  greater  mood, 
And  ere  the  chain  grows  taut,  we  let 
The  leash  to  slip — and  we  forget. 


73 


WE  FORGET 

We  drink  to  Love,  all  protestful 
A  pledge  from  out  the  grinning  skull 
Of  long  dead  Constancy — ere  yet 
The  chalice  empty — we  forget. 

We  vow  in  frail  and  failing  mood 
Remembrance  sweet  and  gratitude, 
Until  the  burden  of  the  debt 
Chafes  our  light  souls — and  we  forget. 

Today  bestrewn  the  troubled  way 
With  fears,  as  saints  we  kneel  to  pray ; 
The  way  tomorrow  unbeset, 
Self  proud  we  rise — and  we  forget. 


THE  CYNIC'S  FRIENDS 

FRIENDS  are  but  bubbles  in  a  bowl 

Mere  empty  things,  devoid  of  soul, 

Reflecting  but  what  shines  upon; 

A  puff  of  wind  and — pish!    They're  gone. 

Now  see!    So  carefully  I've  wrought 
To  raise  and  fashion  one  from  naught. 
A  passing  gust!   A  zephyr  veers! 
My  bubble  bursts  and  disappears. 

I  sit  and  gaze  at  one  I've  made 
Reflecting  gems  of  light  and  shade, 
When,  lo,  it  bursts!    The  friendship  flies 
And  leaves  but  soap  dust  in  my  eyes. 

So  thick  they  cluster,  bright  they  shine, 

So  delicate,  clear-hued,  and  fine, 

So  fair,  so  fine — to  look  upon, 

But  brush  so  lightly — puff!    They're  gone! 


75 


MYSTERIES 
(From  the  Persian.) 

A  LITTLE  span  of  breath  spun  like  a  thread 
Across  a  fearsome  chasm,  yawning  wide 
Between  a  birth  and  bier,  its  swaying  length 
Clung  to  in  fear  by  myriads  of  souls 
All  struggling  on,  from  out  the  gloom  to  gloom. 

A  thread  of  breath  forth  floating  through  the  air 

Bearing  a  soul  from  birth  mysterious 

To  death  unfathomable  in  the  dark, 

And  shrinking  souls  that  clasp  and  cling  in  fear 

Dreading  the  abysmal  darkness  down  beneath. 

A  soul,  fearing  to  die,  that  dreads  to  live, 

Swaying  in  agony  'twixt  cliff  and  cliff, 

Above  a  soundless  void,  and  toiling  on, 

Faint  breathing,  lest  the  thread  of  breath  may  snap, 

Praying  that  death  may  end  its  fear  to  die. 

A  web  of  endless  threads  across  a  sea 
Whose  moaning  waters,  rushing  far  below, 
Flow  uninterpreted ;  and  in  the  web 
Confused  souls,  inborn  to  life  unwilled 
Are  caught  and  only  breathe  and  wonder  why. 

76 


MYSTERIES 

A  sea  that  sobs,  the  sea  of  rayless  gloom, 

To  which  they  cry,  but  only  great  gulls  rise 

From  Death's  own  cote,  to  fright  them  in  the  dark, 

And  answer  rises  not  but  from  the  depths 

Comes  only  silence,  dread  and  mystery. 

No  sound  but  threads  of  breath,  that  strain  and  snap, 
Plunging  their  burdens  down  into  the  depths, 
Where  blackness  yawns  and  swallows  up  the  life 
That  clung  to  its  spent  thread  in  dismal  fright, 
Knowing  to  be  afraid;  afraid  to  know. 

A  quaking  mystery  that  treads  a  thread 

With  steps  unsteady,  knows  nor  whence  nor  where 

Nor  why,  nor  anything,  but  that  its  span 

Soon  ends,  and  it  must  topple  in  the  gloom 

Dread,  dense  and  deep — and  this  is  Life  and  Death. 


77 


CONTENT 

GIVE  me  content;  all  else  is  vain, 
Nor  power  nor  majesty  may  gain 
The  prize,  and  yet  in  me  are  blent 
All  these,  the  while  I  am  content. 

Give  me  content,  nor  anything 
Beside,  uncrowned  I  were  a  king 
With  this;  and  majesty  its  throne 
Might  forfeit,  gained  it  this  alone. 

Give  me  content,  nor  any  sigh 
For  things  the  which  beyond  me  lie, 
And  mine  a  heritage  that  gold 
Were  dross  beside,  and  honor  cold. 

Give  me  content — power  or  degree, 
Fame,  honor,  genius,  majesty, 
Keep  thou  all  these,  for  these  all  blent 
Thou  givest,  when  I  have  content. 


THE  PARTED  THREADS 

IF  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  know 
The  voices  whispering  of  the  long  ago? 
If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  see 
The  beauties,  buried  now,  that  used  to  be? 
If  he  came  back,  back  from  the  dust  and  dead, 
I  wonder  would  he  seek  the  broken  thread, 
And  follow  on,  o'er  sod  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Until  it  led  him  back  to  youth  and  me? 

If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  share 
My  dreams?   Or  would  the  roses  in  my  hair 
Be  but  dull,  voiceless  flowers  of  the  spring, 
Speechless  and  silent,  mute,  nor  whispering 
The  secrets  once  they  told?   Or  would  they  glow 
With  the  sweet  memories  of  long  ago, 
Where  every  petal  quivered  with  the  weight 
And  grandeur  of  a  rapture  passionate? 


79 


THE   PARTED   THREADS 

If  he  came  back,  I  wonder  would  he  feel 
The  rapture  of  the  hopes  that  used  to  steal 
From  out  the  tinted  twilight  as  we  stood 
Beneath  the  boughs  in  the  thick,  leafy  wood, 
Thrilled  with  the  song  whose  silent  melody 
None  heard  in  all  its  ecstasy  but  we? 
Would  he  now  hear  that  whispered  song  and  low 
If  he  came  back,  who  went  so  long  ago? 

Where  ends  the  song  that  is  yet  half  unsung? 
In  the  still  mound,  where  the  green  turf  upflung? 
Dies  all  the  music,  or  but  hid  in  air, 
Trembling,  yet  mute,  in  that  vast  Otherwhere? 
The  threads  now  parted,  who  shall  mend  again, 
Weld  broken  links,  restore  the  chain?  And  then 
When  they  come  back  who  have  been  gone  so  long, 
I  wonder  will  they  know  the  old,  sweet  song? 


80 


WINTER  AND  SUMMER 

SNOW  on  the  hilltops,  drear  and  bleak, 
Snow  in  the  vales  where  the  shrill  winds  speak 
In  mournful  tones;  but  deep,  and  deep 
Down,  down,  beneath,  the  flowers  sleep. 

Green  are  the  hilltops,  fresh  and  fair, 

Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  scented  air, 

Loosed  the  chains  of  the  ice-locked  lake, 

And  the  sad  heart  smiles  and  the  flowers  wake. 

Snow  on  the  heart  that  is  riven  and  bleak, 
Snow  on  the  heart  where  voices  speak, 
Voices  of  grief  that  is  deep  and  deep, 
Yet  still  in  the  heart  the  flowers  sleep. 

A  whisper  of  hope  on  the  scented  air, 
Flown  is  the  snow  and  the  bleak  heart  fair ; 
Dull  Grief's  grim  fetters  break  and  break, 
And  the  sad  heart  smiles  and  the  flowers  wake. 


Vol.    Ill— 6 


RESIGNATION 

A  BROKEN  mother  to  the  Buddha  brought 

A  lifeless  child;  with  hands  outstretched  besought 

That  mighty  prophet  to  recall  the  breath 

Forthflown,  and  steal  away  the  sting  of  death. 

Tearful  she  pleaded  and  with  piteous  gaze; 

The  Buddha  stooped,  from  her  bent  knees  to  raise 

The  stricken  mother ;  took  from  her  the  child 

And  spake  in  gentle  accents,  soothing,  mild, 

That  hushed  her  grief  and  checked  the  flooding  tears ; 

"Be  still  thine  heart,  and  quieted  thy  fears ; 

Thy  child  shall  be  restored  again  to  thee 

When  thou  hast  sought  and  found  and  brought  to  me 

A  grain  of  corn,  from  hovel,  hut  or  home, 

(No  limits  give  I  in  thy  quest  to  roam,) 

Whence  Death  has  stolen  parent  not,  or  child." 

Eager  she  heard,  and  her  distress  beguiled, 

Lighted  her  eyes,  the  Buddha's  name  she  blessed 

And  turned  and  sped  fleet-footed  on  her  quest. 

82 


RESIGNATION 

Sped  on  the  years  and  yet  she  sought  in  vain, 
With  eager  voice  inquired  and  sought  again. 
But  here  a  parent  gone  and  here  a  son, 
And  here  a  daughter,  always  finding  one 
Forever  absent;  still,  with  footsteps  fleet 
She  sped,  to  find  some  circle  quite  complete. 
Asked  at  each  door  with  mutely  pleading  eyes 
And  hungry  yearning  for  the  ordered  prize; 
Despairing  not  till  worn  with  toil  and  time, 
With  patience  tireless  and  with  hope  sublime, 
Again  the  Buddha  in  her  anguish  seeks, 
Recounts  her  journeys  and  her  failure  speaks. 

The  Buddha  softly,  sadly  speaks  again: 

"Hast  thou  not  learned  thy  search  would  not  be  vain 

Were  there  the  power  thou  wouldst  have  me  declare? 

Dost  thou  not  see  that  Death  is  everywhere 

But  in  that  circle  of  Eternity 

That  comes  with  only  waiting  patiently  ?" 


THE  RECRUIT 

The  trumpet  calls,  the  twilight  falls, 

Goodbye,  sweetheart. 
A  dream  of  bliss,  a  hurried  kiss, 

Goodbye,  sweetheart. 
A  stout  ship,   throbbing,   speeds  away, 
A  crimson  sunset  streaks  the  day, 
A  weeping  maiden  kneels  to  pray, 

Goodbye,  sweetheart. 

The  trumpet  calls,  a  soldier  falls, 

Goodbye,  sweetheart. 
A  gasping  cry  in  agony, 

Goodbye,  sweetheart. 
A  form,  blood-reddened,  silent  lies, 
Where  crimson  streaks  the  earth  and  skies, 
Upturned  two  sightless,   staring  eyes, 

Goodbye,  sweetheart. 


84 


SONG  OF  ENDEAVOR 

Tis  not  by  wishing  that  we  gain  the  prize, 

Nor  yet  by  ruing, 
But,  from  our  fallings,  learning  how  to  rise, 

And  tireless  doing. 

The  idols  broken,  nor  our  tears  and  sighs 

May  yet  restore  them. 
Regret  is  only  food  for  fools;  the  wise 

Look  but  before  them. 

Nor  ever  yet  Success  was  wooed  with  tears; 

To  notes  of  gladness 
Alone  the  fickle  goddess  turns  her  ears, 

She  hears  not  sadness. 

The  heart  thrives  not  in  the  dull  rain  and  mist 

Of  gloomy  pining. 
The  sweetest  flowers  are  the  flowers  sun-kissed, 

Where  glad  light  shining. 


SONG  OF  ENDEAVOR 

Look  not  behind  thee ;  there  is  only  dust 

And  vain  regretting. 
The  lost  tide  ebbs ;  in  the  next  flood  thou  must 

Learn,  by  forgetting. 

For  the  lost  chances  be  ye  not  distressed 

To  endless  weeping; 
Be  not  the  thrush  that  o'er  the  empty  nest 

Is  vigil  keeping. 

Buttin  new  efforts  our  regrets  today 

To  stillness  whiling, 
Let  us  in  some  pure  purpose  find  the  way 

To  future  smiling. 


86 


RAINBOWS 

WE  sit  and  dream. 

OUT  airy  fancies  wing  an  endless  flight 
To  that  dim  future  time  when  wrong's  made  right; 
When  life's  all  gilded  with  the  glorious  light 
Of  happiness,  and  in  the  shadowy  night, 
We  see  glad  visions  that  thrill  us  and  seem 
So  jclose  we  almost  touch  them,  but  the  gleam 
Fades — and  we  sit  and  dream. 

We  sit  and  dream. 

And  paint  hope's  pictures  on  the  melting  air; 
We  see  the  distant  city  where  we  share 
The  joys  we've  been  denied,  and  smiling  there 
The  fleeting  promises  we  seek,  alluring,  fair, 
They  beckon  us,  we  hasten  on,  and  seem 
Almost  to  touch  them,  but  the  hopes  that  gleam 
Fade— v  md  we  sit  and  dream. 


RAINBOWS 

We  sit  and  dream. 

We  build  fool's  castles  from  the  twigs  of  hope; 
Then  through  the  darknesses  and  mists  we  grope, 
And  on  and  on  and  on,  and  finding  not 
The  palaces  we've  dreamed.  The  little  lot 
Of  Man  is  but  to  struggle  on,  to  seem 
Almost  to  grasp  the  prize ;  its  luring  gleam 
Fades — and  we  sit  and  dream. 

We  sit  and  dream. 

We  know  we  dream  and  know  we  dream  in  vain, 
And  yet  we  strive  and  struggle  on,  through  pain, 
Through  joy  and  grief,  .as  through  the  mist  and  rain 
A  wayworn  traveler  plods,  seeking  a  light 
That  bids  him  hope  of  haven  in  the  night. 
We  drag  our  weary  feet  along  and  seem 
Almost  to  reach  the  beacon,  but  the  gleam 
Fades — and  we  sit  and  dream. 


TAPS 

LIGHTS  out!  and  darkness  brooding  deep  around 
Thee,  soldier;  not  the  trembling  bugle's  sound 
Nor  volley  thrice  repeated  o'er  the  mound 

Shall  waken  thee. 

Lights  out!    Not  where  the  flag  of  battle  flies, 
Nor  here,  where  the  sad,  silent  shadow  lies, 
Shall  drumbeat  call  or  bugle  bid  thee  rise, 

But  silently, 

Thy  duty  done,  thou  sleepest.   Rest  thee  well; 
Nor  any  rude  alarm  shall  strike  and  swell 
To  rouse  thee — Glory  stands  thy  sentinel. 

Good  night  to  thee! 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  GIRL 

JUST  an  old-fashioned  girl,  of  the  kind  that  you  knew 
When  your  mother  sat  up  to  mend  stockings  for  you 
With  a  ball  of  red  yarn  and  a  bag  full  of  hose 
And  a  goose-eggish  thing  that  slipped  down  in  the 

toes. 

Just  an  old-fashioned  girl,  of  the  kind  that  brings  tears 
To  your  eyes  when  you  think  of  the  toil  of  her  years, 
And  wonder  how  ever  she  laid  every  curl 
On  a  half-dozen  heads — such  an  old-fashioned  girl. 

Just  an  old-fashioned  girl,  of  an  age  ere  the  flat, 
Or  of  winters  in  this  place  and  summers  in  that. 
Of  the  kind  that  you  knew  when  you  went  with  bare 

legs 

In  the  days  when  you  ransacked  the  manger  for  eggs. 
Just  an  old-fashioned  girl  in  a  blue  gingham  gown 
That  is  leading  your  fancy  some  forty  years  down 
On  the  pathway  of  years,  till  the  hum  and  the  whirl 
Of  the  day  you  forget  with  that  old-fashioned  girl. 


90 


AN   OLD-FASHIONED   GIRL 

Just  an  old-fashioned  girl  of  that  out-of-date  day, 
When  you  knew  all  the  hymns  and  she  found  time  to 

play 

On  the  organ  in  church,  and  you  knelt  with  her  there 
And  repeated — what  was  it? — ah,  yes! — 'twas  a 

prayer : 

Such  an  old-fashioned  thing,  as  you  think  of  it  now 
With  the  years  writ  in  wrinkles  on  temple  and  brow; 
But  the  years  back  there  gleam  with  the  luster  of 

pearl — 

When  you  walked  hand-in-hand  with  that  old-fash- 
ioned girl. 

Just  an  old-fashioned  girl  of  those  old-fashioned  days, 
And  she  knelt  in  the  night  with  a  prayer  that  she'd 

raise 

Up  a  son  to  be  manly  and  honest  and  true. 
There's  a  mound  where  the  wild-flowers  nodded  and 

grew 
Ere  the  world  bade  you  come,  and  a  love  that  lies 

there 

With  its  heart  in  the  dust,  but  its  essence  as  rare 
As  the  breath  of  the  rose  and  as  pure  as  the  pearl 
That  shall  tinge  all  your  dreams  of  that  old-fashioned 

girl. 


WHERE? 

"WHERE  lies  the  town  of  Happiness?" 
Cried  the  youth  to  the  wrinkled  sage, 

As  they  met  one  day  on  the  weary  way 
That  lies  'twixt  Youth  and  Age. 

The  gray  haired  wise  man  shook  his  head: 

"  'Tis  a  little  farther  on,"  he  said. 

"Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness? 

I  pray  we  reach  it  soon ;" 
For  risen  high  in  the  molten  sky 

Was  the  sun  that  marked  Life's  noon. 
But  again  the  wise  man  shook  his  head: 
"  'Tis  a  little  farther  on,"  he  said. 

"Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness?" 

The  youth  was  old  and  gray, 
With  shoulders  bent,  and  eyes  intent 

Where  the  road  stretched  forth,  away 
The  wise  man  sadly  shook  his  head: 
"  'Tis  a  little  farther  on,"  he  said. 

"Where  lies  the  town  of  Happiness?" 
Down,  down  in  the  dust  he  fell; 

His  voice  was  shrill  and  the  death  films  fill 
His  eyes :    Mused  the  sage :    "  Tis  well." 

And  there  gleamed  in  his  eye  a  tear  unshed; 
"For  me,  'tis  farther  on,"  he  said. 


92 


THE  JUDGMENT 

THE  world  and  what  is  of  the  world  shall  fade 

And  in  the  dust  and  embers,  dead,  be  laid. 

Ambition,  fame,  degree  and  love  and  lust 

Shall  totter,  fall  and  crumble  in  the  dust. 

The  stars  die  and  the  radiant  sun  grow  cold, 

And  gloom  and  shroud  the  universe  shall  hold. 

The  lover's  lute,  the  brazen  trump,  the  lyre 

Be  cast  upon  a  common  funeral  pyre. 

The  sighs  of  toiling  millions  shall  be  stilled 

Nor  space  nor  time  with  struggling  being  thrilled. 

But  emptiness  in  gloom,  and  space  shall  hold 

But  space  and  nothingness  shall  space  enfold. 

And  Silence,  sombre,  still,  shall  sit  and  brood 

Upon  his  vast  dominion — Solitude. 

Time  stand  beside  the  yawning  pit  and  grave 

Of  things  and  ponder  what  is  good  to  save 

From  all  the  ash  and  wreck  of  worlds,  and  pause, 

Adjust  the  balances  and  read  the  laws. 

Weigh  wealth  and  honor,  fame,  degree  and  pride 

But  with  a  frown  to  cast  them  all  aside. 

And  raise  his  voice  and  in  the  solitude 

Shall  cry :  "Oh  God,  is  there  no  perfect  Good  ?" 

Space  all  unfathomed  echo  with  the  cry 

And  Silence  shall  still  brood,  but  not  reply. 

And  Time  shall  cry  again:   "Whom  shall  I  save 

From  out  this  depth  of  ash  and  wreck  and  grave?" 

Lo!   A  voice  whispers  in  the  solitude: 

"Save  all  in  whom  thou  findest  any  good !" 

Time  speaks  once  more  betime  the  task  is  done: 

"Lord  thou  hast  bidden  me  save  everyone!" 


93 


AT  THE  WAR  OFFICE 

A  WOMAN  poor  and  a  peeress  proud, 
A  dingy  room  and  a  crushing  crowd, 
The  gloom  of  death  and  grave  and  shroud, 
A  stifled  cry  and  a  sob,  aloud. 

A  heart  has  heard  and  an  eye  has  read ; 
A  soul  has  writhed,  and  a  lowered  head 
Is  bowed,  and  a  trembling  tongue  has  said: 
"My  God !  My  God !  And  he  is  dead !" 

A  wail,  a  sob,  and  a  bitter  cry; 

An  anguished  tear  in  a  woman's  eye; 

A  peeress'  face  where  agony 

Is  carved,  and  a  mutely  murmured  "Why?" 

A  woman  stares  and  a  peeress  starts. 
Without,  the  din  of  traffic's  marts 
Throbs  in  the  streets.   Lie  far  apart 
Their  lives;  but  close,  so  close  their  hearts. 


94 


THE  LAST  APPEAL 

FOR  her  sake  I  will  woo  thee, 
Oh,  Fortune,  and  sue  thee 

For  peace;  I  will  bow  thee  my  arrogant  pride. 
For  her  sake  I  will  bend  thee 
My  headj  and  will  lend  thee 

My  struggles  again  what  thy  caprice  betide. 

Think  not  that  I  fear  thee ! 
Myself,  I  would  jeer  thee 

And  bid  thee  defiance  to  do  what  it  please 
Thee  to  do;  but  to  render 
To  her  what  the  tender 

Heart's  love  of  me  bids,  I  will  crook  thee  my  knees. 

I  come  not  to  woo  thee 
For  fame,  or  to  sue  thee, 

But  only  as  pleader  for  her  when  I  see 
Her  so  crushed  in  her  spirit; 
Ah,  Jade — thou  must  hear  it, 

The  prayer  that  goes  from  me  to  heaven — and  thee. 


95 


THE    LAST    APPEAL 

Think  not  I  am  pleading 
For  self;  were  I  bleeding 

And  battered   thy  minions   should   still   taste  my 

sword ; 

But,  ah!   Tis  not  human 
To  withhold  from  woman 

The  little  she  craves,  when  by  woman  adored. 

Not  wealth  beyond  measure, 
Not  gold  of  thy  treasure, 

But,  ah!  just  enough  of  thy  goodness  to  lay 
Before  her,  and  reaping 
My  joy  in  her  weeping 

Of  pride  in  my  conquest  find  comfort  today. 

So  for  her  sake  I  woo  thee, 
Again  I  will  sue  thee, 

For  her  sake  I  come  and  I  fawn  like  a  cur 
Begging  food ;  but  remember 
My  last  ashing  ember 

Shall  hate  thee — but  still  I  will  woo  thee — for  her! 


CONTENTMENT 

LIVE  in  Today,  nor  count  the  Future's  sorrow; 

Live  in  Today,  nor  dream  the  Future's  pain; 
Live  in  Today,  there  may  be  no  Tomorrow. 

Today's  delights  thou  mayst  not  know  again. 

Smile  in  Today ;  whate'er  the  morrow  brings  thee, 
Smile  in  Today,  while  yet  thy  heart  is  glad ; 

Be  thou  the  songster  that  in  gladness  sings  free; 
Today  is  bright;  Tomorrow  may  be  sad. 

Today  Life's  harp  is  tuned  to  notes  of  gladness, 
Deft  Happiness  the  sweetest  notes  may  raise. 

Tomorrow  strikes  its  wailing  strings  to  sadness, 
And  memory  only  mournful  music  plays. 


Vol.    Ill— 7 


97 


THE  DEATH  OF  POETRY 

(There  is  no  demand  for  poetry,  according  to  one  of  the 
greatest  of  international  publishers. — Daily  Paper.) 

LAY  her  and  her  muted  lyre 
Here  together  on  this  pyre. 
And  the  laurels  she  has  won, 
Lay  them,  lay  them  one  by  one 
As  a  pillow  for  head, 
Who  lies  here,  forlorn  and  dead. 

None  to  mourn  her,  none  to  praise. 
Homer  loved  her  in  his  days ; 
Sappho  struck  the  lyre  of  her, 
Petrarch  was  her  worshipper, 
Virgil,  Dante — all  are  mute, 
Hers  a  split  and  silenced  lute. 

Burns  her  erring  child  and  poor, 

Byron  wooed  her  and  did  Moore 

From  her  happiest  moods  beguile 

Sweetness  in  a  worded  smile. 

And  where  subtle  Shelly  slept 

She  paused  once  an  hour — and  wept. 

Regal,  beautiful,  she  stood 

In  her  glorious  goddesshood, 

Bade  Shakespeare,  her  child  to  be 

By  her  own  divinity 

Half  god-like,  and  where  she  trod 

Hallowed  man  and  worshipped  God. 

98 


THE   DEATH   OF   POETRY 

By  vagrant  stream  and  eerie  wood 
She  wandered  with  the  merry  Hood. 
Piped  her  pastoral  lays  oft  were 
With  Goldsmith  as  interpreter, 
And  Whitman  knew  her  dreamy  days. 
And  went  with  her  up  mountain  ways. 

When  gloomy  Poe  her  favor  sued, 
She  listened  and  she  understood. 
Holmes  claimed  her  joyous  presence  oft, 
And  Bryant  knew  her  in  her  soft 
And  gracious  whiles,  and  Whittier 
In  green  fields  would  walk  with  her. 

A  minister  to  grief,  she  moved 
By  many  wooed,  yet  few  she  loved, 
And  those  she  best  beloved,  she  lent 
Her  grandeur  of  the  firmament, 
Of  seas  and  skies  and  subtle  arts, 
Of  love  and  grief  and  human  hearts. 

Here  upon  the  funeral  pyre 
Lay  her  and  her  muted  lyre. 
Know  ye,  mourners  at  her  bier, 
'Tis  a  goddess  that  lies  here. 
And  above  ye  all  as  far 
As  the  weeping  angels  are. 


99 


LOOK  UP 

EACH  little  day 

That  slips  away 
And  finds  for  thee  no  pleasure, 

That  steals  along 

Without  a  song, 
Is  just  a  wasted  treasure. 

The  sands  that  pass 

Through  the  hour  glass 
And  find  thee  in  repining, 

Mark  the  lost  hours. 

The  freshest  flowers 
Blow  when  the  sun  is  shining. 

Thou  shalt  not  grope 

For  the  lost  hope 
Through  darkness  dim,  unending. 

Ne'er  vain  regret 

Succeeded  yet 
A  broken  thread  in  mending. 

100 


LOOK   UP 

The  chance  that's  lost, 

Let  not  the  cost 
Be  flowing  tears  and  sighing, 

When  countless  more 

From  life's  vast  store 
Are  to  be  had  for  trying. 

So  put  away 

Thy  cares  today, 
And  cease  thy  fate  reviling; 

For  Chance  eludes 

The  soul  that  broods, 
And  courts  the  soul  that's  smiling. 


101 


DREAMS 

IF  the  iceman  should  come  to  me  some  day, 

While  weighing  out  a  piece  at  my  back  door, 
And,  dropping  it  upon  the  porch,  would  say: 
"It  was  so  cold  last  year  and  year  before, 

The  crop  is  long  and  we  have  cut  the  price" — 
If  he  should  just  say  that  and  lay  the  ice 
On  my  back  steps  and  then  drive  on — but  hush! 
Such  dreams  as  this  are  only  silly  gush. 

Or  if  the  butcher,  wrapping  up  my  steak, 

Should  say :  "You  know,  the  corn  crop  was  so  vast, 
And  feed  so  cheap,  we're  able  now  to  make 
A  slight  reduction  in  the  price  at  last" — 
I  say,  if  he  should  tell  me  that  and  take 
Two  cents  a  pound  from  last  week's  price  of  steak, 
I  wonder  if  the  shock — but  pshaw !  why  spare 
The  time  to  build  such  castles  in  the  air? 

Or  if  the  baker,  doling  out  my  bread, 

Should  put  a  penny  back  into  my  hand, 
And  say:  "The  world  will  be  more  cheaply  fed, 
Since  there  is  a  large  wheat  crop  in  the  land" — 
I  say,  if  he  should  voluntarily 
Return  a  single  penny  unto  me, 
I  wonder  if  I'd  be — but,  Heart,  be  still ; 
There  is  no  possibility  he  will ! 


IO2 


DREAMS 

Or  if  my  tailor,  deftly  sizing  me 

For  a  new  suit,  should  say:  "You  know  that  sheep 
Are  multiplying  fast  and  wool  will  be 
In  cloth  upon  the  market  very  cheap" — 
I  say,  if  he  should  just  say  that  and  take 
Five  dollars  from  the  price — well,  then,  I'd  wake 
Right  up  and  rub  my  sleepy  eyes  and  laugh, 
To  think  of  tailors  giving  me  such  chaff. 

I  know  that  these  are  merely  dreams — that  ice 

And  meat  and  bread  are  going  up — that  crop 
Or  weather  will  do  naught  but  raise  the  price ; 
There  is  no  likelihood  of  any  drop ; 
But  my  employer  tells  me  he  will  give 
Me  higher  wage — it  costs  so  much  to  live — 
So  now  I  do  not  need  to  skimp  and  scratch — 
My  pipe  is  out !  Has  any  one  a  match  ? 


103 


INDESTRUCTIBLE 

A  WREATH  of  roses  hung  upon  a  stone, 
Above  me,  this  alone. 

A  sob  that  floats,  and  falling  tear  on  tear 
Descending  here. 

Some  soul  in  sorrow  kneeling  at  the  tomb, 
And  in  the  gloom, 

Pouring  above  me  to  the  silent  air 
Its  deep  despair. 

Though  cold  the  pulseless  clay  and  deaf  the  ear, 
Yet  I  still  hear. 

Though  the  thick  shadows  endlessly  shall  flow, 
Still  shall  I  know. 

Though  from  the  dumb,  dead  tenement  in  flight 
Wing  life  and  light, 

Yet  not  deserted  lies  the  silent  clay, 
For  Love  shall  stay. 

Crumble  the  stone  and  in  the  dust  shall  lie, 
Yet  Love  not  die. 

Through  the  long  night  when  the  dark  shadows  creep, 
Not  even  sleep, 

But  whisper  from  the  silence  of  the  bier: 
"Lo!  I  am  here." 

104 


A  REALLY  PRETTY  GIRL 

I  HAVE  traveled  alien  countries  (through  the  medium 

of  books) 
I  have  seen  (in  photogravures)   Italy's  sunburnished 

skies ; 
I've  had  (stereoptic)  visions  of  cliff-bounded  mountain 

brooks, 
And  the  camera  has  brought  me  where  Killarney's 

splendor  lies. 
In  the  biograph  exhibits  I  have  trodden  courts  of 

kings, 
To  the  ends  of  earth  (in  lectures)   I  have  let  my 

senses  whirl, 
And  it  all  one  sage  conclusion  to  my  comprehension 

brings : 
There  is  nothing  half  as  splendid  as  a  really  pretty 

girl. 

I  have  seen  (in  scenic  albums)  all  the  gardens  of  the 

East, 
I  have  been  (in  dreams  fantastic)  where  the  tropic 

breezes  blow, 
I  have  watched  (in  moving  pictures)  where  Niagara 

like  yeast 
Frothed  above  its  splendid  chasm  and  upon  the  rocks 

below. 
By  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates  (done  on  canvas)   I 

have  strolled, 

In  the  valley  of  Yosemite  seen  scenic  glories  whirl 
In  kaleidoscopic  splendor,  but  when  all  the  tale  is  told, 
There  is  nothing  half  as  splendid  as  a  really  pretty 
girl. 

105 


A  REALLY  PRETTY  GIRL 

When   Nature  did  the  firmament  and  splashed  the 

sombre  skies 
With  the  splendor  of  the  dawning;  when  she  set 

the  moon  and  stars 

As  the  jewels  in  the  crown  of  Night  and  with  her  gor- 
geous dyes 
Made  glorious  the  garden-  where  the  nodding  flowers 

are, 
She  had  in  mind  a  vision  far  beyond  the  dreams  of 

kings, 

A  tingling  inspiration  that  set  every  sense  a-whirl 
So  after  she  had  practiced  on  these  quite  imperfect 

things 

She  set  to  work  and  fashioned  us  a  really  pretty 
girl. 


106 


WAR 

UN  ANGERED  columns  hurled  upon  a  foe; 

Blood  guiltless  souls  made  gory  at  a  word ; 
Cheeks  drenched  with  tears  and  widowed  women's  woe 

In  the  long  wail  of  cloistered  sorrow  heard. 
Man  at  a  cry  made  furious  and  grim 

With  scent  of  blood  and  smoke  of  bursting  shell; 
Dead  faces  on  a  field  upturned  to  Him, 

And  spirits  flown — to  Heaven  or  to  Hell? 

Smoke,  like  the  fumes  from  Hell's  own  caldron  curled ; 

Men  schooled  to  murder  at  a  bugle's  blare; 
Emblems  of  empire  from  a  staff  unfurled, 

Blades  drawn  from  scabbards,  bidden  slay  nor  spare. 
Man  and  his  brother,  Man,  the  tie  forgot, 

Each  with  his  eye  light  with  the  lust  of  Cain ; 
Blood,  as  the  breech  of  belching  cannon,  hot 

Leaping  to  splash  the  battled  hill  or  plain. 

Night!    And  long  trenches  with  the  dead  thick  laid. 

Sleep !  And  wan  beacons  flaring  in  the  sky. 
Rest!    Claims  a  truce  the  blood-incrusted  blade. 

Dreams !   Of  the  dead  and  those  so  soon  to  die. 
Hark !    Tis  the  bugle !   And,  with  bloody  hands, 

Sleep  greets  the  dawn  and  Murder  comes  from  bed ! 
Lives  are  the  ancient  sacrifice  of  Lands. 

Vainglory  heaps  her  altar  fires  with  dead. 


107 


THE  CHOSEN  ONES 

THAT  fellowship  of  genius,  unconstrained 
Of  place  or  riches ;  nor  its  precincts  gained 
Of  loud  alarum ;  for  a  brazen  gate 
Thick-metaled,  bids  the  wanderer  await 
Until  the  sacred  password  is  approved 
By  Him  who  loveth  art  for  art  beloved. 

Nor  ever  ringeth  false  upon  His  ear 

That  magic  word  that  bids  the  gate  swing  clear, 

The  moated  ditches  close,  the  drawbridge  fall, 

The  sentinels  move  harmless  on  the  wall, 

The  feast  be  spread,  the  laureled  wreath  be  wove, 

For  him  who  bears  the  signet-ring  of  Love. 

Not  any  soul  discordant  at  the  feast, 

Not  any  greatest  one  or  any  least, 

But  all  of  common  stature,  having  sipped 

The  cup  whose  golden  sides  have  dripped  and  dripped 

With  the  rare  wine  of  Song,  whose  vineyards  lie 

Where  the  clear  blue  of  the  Parnassian  sky 

Dips  down  to  earth  to  lift  the  souls  of  men 

That  fell  from  Heaven  back  to  Heaven  again. 

108 


THE   CHOSEN    ONES 

And  in  that  din  and  clamor  I  await 

The  message  that  He  sends  who  guards  the  gate. 

To  bid  me  come  within  or  bid  me  lay 

My  dreams  aside  and  diligently  stray 

By  field  and  stream  and  under  the  blue  sky, 

Seeking  the  truth  afar  with  eager  eye. 

Through  many  a  sleepless  night  and  weary  day 

To  serve  with  patience,  suffer,  learn,  and  pray, 

Until  I  gain  the  Secret,  and  the  gate 

Shall  be  flung  wide  and  those  great  souls  await 

To  welcome  me,  who,  like  me,  unafraid, 

Untiring,  patient,  at  the  altar  laid 

Their  offerings  once  and  once  and  once  again, 

And  once  a  hundred  times,  and  more ;  till  then 

They  learned  that  patience  was  the  word  that  bade 

The  gate  swing  wide  and  waiting  souls  be  glad! 


109 


THE  TEST  OF  FAME 

I  DO  not  yearn  for  splendid  fame — 

A  little  share  will  do  for  me, 
And  in  the  busy  mundane  game 

Of  life,  I'd  simply  like  to  see 
The  time,  when,  seeing  me  in  print, 

Folks  would  look  at  my  name  again, 
And,  glancing  up  from  it,  just  hint 

Of  me:    "Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him  when — " 

It  really  isn't  much  to  ask, 

And  yet  it  is  a  splendid  test 
Of  those,  more  fortunate,  who  bask 

In  smiles  Fate  gives  those  she  loves  best, 
If  when  my  name,  perchance,  was  read, 

Some  good  soul  would  arise  and  then 
Not  speak  some  fulsome  praise — instead 

Just  say:  "Oh'j,  yes,  I  knew  him  when — " 


no 


THE  TEST  OF  FAME 

I  really  wouldn't  care,  you  know, 

Just  when  I  had  been  known  before, 
Or  whether  I'd  been  shoveling  snow 

Or  peddling  ice  or  keeping  store, 
Just  so,  whene'er  my  name  was  heard 

Through  some  creation  of  my  pen, 
Some  listening  person  might  be  stirred 

To  say:    "Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him  when — " 

So  all  I  ask  of  fickle  fame 

Is  this,  I  think,  quite  modest  boon. 
I  do  not  ask  a  brilliant  flame, 

That  lights  the  world,  but  dies  too  soon ; 
I  only  ask  that  some  fine  day 

Those  sweetest  words  of  tongue  or  pen 
Old  friends  of  mine  be  moved  to  say 

Of  me:  "Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him  when — " 


in 


THE  FOOL 

THE  Fool  raised  up  a  castle  tall 
With  haughty  spire  and  pillared  hall 
And  circled  'round  a  mighty  wall. 

Bolted  and  barred,  with  donjon  keep, 
With  mighty  battlements  and  steep 
All  moat-encompassed,  wide  and  deep. 

Raised  he  aloft  the  drawbridge  wide, 
Clanged  he  the  massive  door  with  pride 
"Safe  here  am  I  what  e'er  betide." 

Death  dimly  viewed  his  stout  defense, 
Smiled  on  the  frowning  battlements 
And  called  his  servant,  Pestilence. 

Set  him  upon  the  wind  to  ride. 

"Go  seek  this  haughty  Fool"  he  cried, 

"To  strike  him  all  his  bars  inside !" 

Grim  frowns  the  castled  pile  and  bold, 
Grim  frown  the  hoary  stones  and  old. 
Within  the  Fool  lies,  still  and  cold. 


112 


LINES  TO  A  MOTH 

BLIND  thing !  Thou  scourge  of  fretful  dame 
That  stumbles  in  the  glaring  light 

To  beat  its  blistered  wings  in  flame — 
What  stubborn  blindness  marks  thy  flight. 

What  is  it  leads  thee  to  the  light? 

What  ignorance  that  bids  thee  fly 
Upon  the  flame  whose  scorching  blight 

Thy  folly  findeth  but  to  die. 

Is  then  thy  ignorance  so  gross, 

So  sotted  thy  intelligence 
As  not  to  learn  from  scourge  or  loss 

Or  profit  by  experience? 

A  moment  and  I  saw  thee  fling 
Thyself  upon  the  flame  and  then 

Reel  from  the  light  with  scorched  wing, 
And  now  I  find  thee  there  again. 

Blind,  blind  thou  art!   A  stubborn  fool, 
To  teach  thee  wisdom  all  has  failed., 

For  ere  thy  blistered  wings  are  cool 
Thou  'rt  back  to  where  thou  wert  assailed. 

Vol.    Ill— 8  TI3 


LINES    TO    A    MOTH 

Yet,  stay,  thou  dullard !  In  thy  flight 
Some  subtle  message  bids  me  see 

Myself,  a  struggler  in  the  light 
Of  knowledge  that  is  not  for  me. 

Like  thee,  I  beat  my  wings  in  vain 
Upon  the  candle's  wick2  to  find 

My  little  soul  in  dust  again, 

My  little  vision  dull  and  blind. 

Like  thee,  I  crave  the  fiercer  light 
Of  learning  and  the  mystery 

Of  Life,  and  in  my  stumbling  flight 
I  am  but  dull  and  blind,  like  thee. 

I  called  thee  dullard  for  thy  way — 

I  tender  my  apology, 
Thou  art  a  fool,  again  I  say — 

Thou  art  a  fool — a  fool  like  me ! 


114 


AN  AUTUMN  REVERIE 

AUTUMN,  the  artist,  enters  in  at  the  door  of  September, 
Fields  and  the  forests  her  studios;  with  the  hand  of 

the  Master 
Mixes  her  colors  and  touches  with  gold  the  green  of 

the  landscape; 
Down  from  the  whispering  trees  the  gilded  leaves 

rustle  and  flutter 
Russet  and  yellow  and  gold,  lying  like  half  finished 

sketches ; 
Scattered  about  by  the  winds.    Lies  sere  and  yellow 

the  stubble, 
Yellow  and  russet  and  red,  as  were  the  stripped  fields 

the  palettes 

Whereon  she  mixes  her  colors.  Down  the  long  hedge- 
rows and  copses, 
Graceful  she  glides  in  the  twilight  and  in  the  night 

with  the  shadows 
Plies  all  her  brushes  unthinking,  inspired,  as  the  soul 

of  the  genius 
Glowing  from  unseen  flames,  glistens  and  gleams  and 

illumines 
Darker  souls  with  its  light.    So  Autumn  the  artist 

enters, 
Fields  and  the  forests  her  studios.    With  the  hand  of 

the  Master 
Mixing  her  colors;  and  leaves  from  the  whispering 

tree  tops  that  flutter 
Lie  in  the  fields  and  scattered  about  like  half  finished 

sketches. 


LINES  FROM  A  CRITICAL  FRIEND 

DEAR  J: — The  things  you've  done  in  verse 
Are  bad  enough,  the  good  Lord  knows, 
And  yet,  withal,  I've  read  some  worse, 
Which  are  the  things  you've  done  in  prose. 

'Tis  not  a  critic  could  assist 
Your  verse  but  a  chiropodist, 
By  methods  heroic  to  treat 
The  corns  on  your  poetic  feet. 

Yet  why  despair?   Let  us  not  shrink; 
A  book  is  only  types  and  ink; 
And  poems  may  be  poured  like  wine 
By  placing  letters  in  a  line. 

If  every  other  line  shall  blend 
In  rhyme  at  one  or  t'other  end 
The  trick  is  done — the  Poet's  muse 
Might  be  a  cobbler  fitting  shoes. 

Enough  the  stanza  's  weird  and  tense, 
For  what  to  us  is  common  sense, 
When  what  's  not  to  be  understood 
Is  doubly  sure  to  be  called  good. 

So  drive  a  spigot  in  the  cask, 
And  turn  the  faucet,  hold  the  flask, 
Let  flow  the  wine  of  poetry, 
The  world  is  writing — why  not  we? 

116 


LINES   FROM   A   CRITICAL   FRIEND 

Old  Omar  wrote,  a  drinking  lout, 
And  doubtless  wondered  what  about; 
The  Future's  literary  elves 
Will  read  us  better  than  ourselves. 

Trust  literary  wights  to  see 
The  depths  of  hidden  mystery; 
And  read  in  us,  from  A  to  end 
The  things  we  never  did  intend. 

'Tis  not  to  write  a  simple  screed 
So  plain  that  he  who  runs  may  read ; 
Real  genius  writes  a  fearsome  one 
That  he  who  reads  in  fright  may  run. 

What  scalding  tears  the  Saints  might  weep 
(Were  writing  fluid  not  so  ;cheap), 
To  view  the  sea  of  ink  that  flows 
In  inane  verse  and  insane  prose. 

While  pens  and  paper  still  are  made 
In  plenty  shall  we  be  dismayed? 
Nay !   Grasp  the  pen  with  firmer  hand 
And  join  the  paper-spoiling  band. 

Then  drive  the  spigot  in  the  cask 
And  turn  the  faucet — hold  the  flask; 
Let  flow  the  wine  of  poetry, 
The  world  is  writing — why  not  we? 


117 


THE  COST  OF  LIVING 

WHAT  is  the  cost  of  living? 
The  price  of  bread  and  a  bone  ? 

The  thirst  of  the  parched  lips  for  drink 

And  the  cry  for  food  alone? 
Masters  of  facts  and  figures, 

Ye  who  have  writ  the  scroll, 
Count  ye  the  cost  as  a  huckster's  charge 

With  never  a  thought  of  soul? 

Ye  with  the  bloodless  story 

Of  figures  and  fact  arrayed, 
Heard  ye  no  tale  of  the  mother's  pain 

On  the  bed  where  the  'child  is  laid? 
Ye  tell  the  cost  of  living, 

Took  ye  no  thought  on  it — 
The  anguished  price  that  a  mother  pays 

And  the  patience  infinite? 

What  is  the  cost  of  living? 

Saw  ye  no  blind  and  lame  ? 
Heard  ye  no  cry  of  a  soul's  despair? 

Saw  ye  no  blush  of  shame? 
Met  ye  no  disappointed? 

Dried  ye  no  tearful  eye 
That  wept  o'er  the  clay  of  an  idol  dead 

Ere  the  sun  was  noonday  high? 


118 


THE  COST  OF  LIVING 

What  is  the  cost  of  living? 

Heard  ye  of  none  who  died 
High  on  a  cross  of  shattered  hopes 

And  longings  unsatisfied? 
Saw  ye  no  slaves  unwilling? 

Heard  ye  no  bitter  cry 
Of  men  accursed  with  the  taint  of  sin 

Fearing  to  live  or  die? 

What  is  the  cost  of  living? 

All  of  our  toil  and  tears. 
All  of  our  doubts  and  sorrows, 

All  of  our  woes  and  fears. 
Grim  and  with  greed  increasing 

Life  for  his  debt  ;claims  pay, 
Never  the  sum  decreasing, 

Now  or  ever  or  aye! 


THE  UNSOUNDED  DEPTHS 

The  sweetest  song  is  the  unsung, 

Unspoken  is  the  kindest  word, 
The  clearest  chime  the  heart's  unrung, 

The  grandest  music  the  unheard. 

Nor  singer  grand,  nor  bard  with  lyre, 
Within  his  sweetest  song  may  hold 

The  fullness  of  the  flaming  fire 
That  leaps  within,  but  is  not  told. 

There  is  a  grandeur  and  sublime 
That  lingers  hidden  in  the  heart; 

That  will  not  speak  in  note  or  rhyme, 
The  fire,  unseen,  that  flames  apart. 

The  grandest  deed  is  that,  undone, 

Whose  endless  promptings  veer  and  roll 

But  take  no  shape — the  rayless  sun 
That  shines  unseen  within  the  soul. 

And,  deed  or  song  or  rhyme  or  word, 
That  soul  may  stir,  or  heart  may  fill, 

There  is  a  sweeter  far,  unheard, 
An  unseen  beauty,  grander  still. 

No  tongue  can  tell  the  deepest  roll, 
Where,  all  unfathomed,  sweep  apart 

The  ocean  waters  of  the  soul. 
The  depths  unseen,  within  the  heart. 

120 


COMPENSATION 

HAD  we  not  met  we  had  not  known  these  sighs, 

These  heartaches  and  these  leaden-winged  years, 

The  sorrows  speaking  in  these  grief-wet  eyes; 
Had  we  not  met  we  had  not  known  these  tears. 

And  yet,  had  we  not  met,  we  had  not  known 
The  bliss  of  gladness  in  those  other  whiles, 

Ere  the  gay-plumaged  yesterday  had  flown. 
Had  we  not  met  we  had  not  known  those  smiles. 


121 


DAME  FASHION 

Who  is  Dame  Fashion? 

Why,  nobody  knows ; 
Or  where  she  may  come  from 

Or  whither  she  goes; 
She  merely  says  "Presto ! 

Go  alter  your  clothes!" 
And  we  all  obey  her; 

Why,  nobody  knows. 

She's  always  a  ruler 

Without  any  throne; 
She  comes  in  a  breath, 

In  another  she's  gone; 
I  know  I  despise  her 

And  so,  too,  do  you, 
We  scold  her  and  scorn  her 

(And  follow  her,  too.) 

She  looks  at  your  dress 

And  she  says  it  won't  do ; 
It's  too — too — well,  you  know, 

It's  just  simply  too — 
Too  what?  It  don't  matter. 

Too  why?   I  can't  say. 
Dame  Fashion  decrees  it, 

That  makes  it  O.  K. 

122 


DAME   FASHION 

Your  hat  is  too  fussy, 

It  ought  to  be  plain, 
'Twas  fussy  last  season, 

It  may  be  again. 
But  that  doesn't  alter 

The  fact  that  today 
Dame  Fashion  decrees  that 

Your  hat  is  passe. 

So  it's  off  to  the  tailor 

To  buy  some  new  clothes. 
Why?  It's  no  matter 

For  nobody  knows. 
Dame  Fashion  has  spoken: 

"Go,  alter  your  clothes!" 
And  lo!   We  obey  her. 

Why?    Nobody  knows. 

Oh,  skirts  may  be  skimpy 

Or  skirts  may  be  full; 
And  skirts  may  be  silken 

Or  skirts  may  be  wool. 
"It's  style,"  so  they  tell  you, 

It's  style— and  it  GOES ! 
Who  made  it?   Don't  ask  me 

For  nobody  knows ! 


123 


SORROW 

WHAT  is  the  chief est  sorrow? 

"  Tis  shame/'  thus  Honor  cried. 
"  'Tis  failure,"  said  Ambition ; 

"Nay,  infamy,"  said  Pride. 
Cried  Gluttony,  "  'tis  hunger." 

The  Cynic  said  "  'tis  breath." 
While  Love  gazed  on  a  cold,  dead  child 

And  murmured,  "Nay,  'tis  Death." 

What  is  the  chief  est  sorrow? 

Said  Wealth,  "  'tis  Beggary." 
"  'Tis  loss,"  the  Miser  muttered, 

And  Sloth  said:  "Industry." 
"  Tis  war,"  Peace  shyly  whispered ; 

"  'Tis  ignorance,"  the  Sage. 
While  Youth  peered  far  into  the  years 

And  murmured,  "Nay,  'tis  Age." 

124 


SORROW 

What  is  the  chief est  sorrow? 

"Tis  duty,"  Vice  replied. 
"Tis  waste,"   Thrift  boldly   answered. 

"  'Tis  Life,"  thus  Failure  sighed. 
"Nay,  'tis  but  Grief,"  said  Pleasure, 

"Defeat,"  said  Victory, 
Said  Truth,  "  'tis  Thine,  my  Master, 

Thine  in  my  sin  and  me." 

"Yet  though  in  pride  and  power, 

I  had  forgotten  Thee; 
Though  Thine  the  chiefest  sorrow, 

Thine  in  my  sin  and  me, 
The  tears  that  flow  from  Heaven 

Are  Sorrow's  victory, 
The  flower  of  Thy  pardon 

Blooms  in  Gethsemane." 


125 


BENEATH  THE  SNOWS 

THERE  are  flowers  of  good  cheer  growing,  close  by  the 
way 

That  stretches  from  dark  to  the  dawn ; 
Full  wreathed  in  the  green  leaves  of  smiles,  so  they 
say, 

And  never  or  ever  are  gone. 
The  snows  of  misfortune  deep  mantling  the  ground, 

The  blasts  from  the  Northland  grow  shrill, 
[Beneath  we  may  find  them  full  blooming  around, 

And  pluck  them  whenever  we  will. 

There  are  ripples  of  laughter  down  deep  in  the  heart, 

As  flowers  that  bloom  'neath  the  snows; 
Though  fettered  with  ice  there  is  water  apart, 

That  tinkles  and  trills  as  it  flows. 
The  breath  of  Misfortune  may  strew  its  hoar  frost, 

The  moan  of  the  winter  be  chill, 
The  music  of  joy  be  afar  but  not  lost, 

And  we  may  still  hear,  if  we  will. 

There  are  songs  of  Delight  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 

Though  hoarser  the  tempest  we  hear; 
Though  fierce  in  its  raging  the  wild  storm  has  dinned 

Its  discord  of  strife  on  the  ear. 
The  deep  diapason,  the  storm's  sullen  roar, 

Shall  sink  to  a  murmur,  be  still ; 
And  songs  that  are  sweeter  shall  tremble  once  more, 

The  songs  we  may  hear,  if  we  will. 

126 


GLADNESS  BY  THE  WAY 

LET  us  smile  along  together, 
Be  the  weather 

What  it  may. 

Through  the  waste  and  wealth  of  hours, 
Plucking  flowers 

By  the  way. 

Fragrance  from  the  meadows  blowing, 
Naught  of  heat  or  hatred  knowing, 
Kindness  seeking,  kindness  sowing, 

Not  tomorrow,  but  today. 

Let  us  sing  along,  beguiling 
Grief  to  smiling 

In  the  song. 

With  the  promises  of  heaven 
Let  us  leaven 

The  day  long. 

Gilding  all  the  duller  seemings 
With  the  roselight  of  our  dreamings, 
Splashing  clouds  with  sunlight's  gleamings, 

Here  and  there  and  all  along. 


127 


GLADNESS  BY  THE  WAY 

Let  us  live  along;  the  sorrow 
Of  tomorrow 

Never  heed. 

In  the  pages  of  the  present 
What  is  pleasant 

Only  read. 

Bells  but  pealing1,  never  knelling, 
Hearts  with  gladness  ever  swelling, 
Tides  of  charity  upwelling 

In  our  every  dream  and  deed. 

Let  us  hope  along  together, 
Be  the  weather 

What  it  may, 

Where  the  sunlight  glad  is  shining, 
Not  repining 

By  the  way, 

Seek  to  add  our  meed  and  measure 
To  the  old  Earth's  joy  and  treasure, 
Quaff  the  crystal  cup  of  pleasure, 

Not  tomorrow,  but  today. 


128 


THE  OPTIMIST'S  FEAST 

BRING  me  a  bowl  of  sunshine,  Lass, 

From  the  fount  of  a  rosy  dawn ; 
A  frozen  rainbow  for  my  glass 

Ere  the  sparkle  of  it  is  gone; 
The  silver  lining  of  a  cloud 

As  a  cloth  for  my  table  here, 
And  sing  me  a  merry  song  aloud 

With  a  voice  that  is  sweet  and  clear. 

Bring  me  the  blue  of  a  sunny  sky 

And  cast  it  overhead, 
Lay  me  a  rug  of  clover  by 

Like  a  wave  of  velvet  spread  ; 
Shower  me  over  with  cherry  flowers 

Just  bursting  to  full  bloom, 
To  freshen  this  perfect  day  of  ours 

With  spice  of  their  sweet  perfume. 

Vol.    Ill— 9  I29 


THE  OPTIMIST'S   FEAST 

Drape  me  the  black  of  a  midnight  sky, 

And  stud  it  with  stars  of  white, 
To  hang  my  walls  with  a  tapestry 

Rare  as  the  peace  of  night ; 
Stretch  me  a  frieze  of  clouds  that  lie 

Over  the  sunlit  hills, 
Where  the  bowl  of  sunshine,  brimming  high, 

Just  overflows  and  spills 

And  my  cloth  shall  be  soft  as  the  rose's  cheek, 

And  my  heart  strings  shall  be  atune, 
All,  all  of  my  bidden  guests  shall  speak 

With  tongues  of  the  birds  in  June ; 
So, — a  bowl  of  sun  from  a  rifted  cloud, 

And  set  it  before  me  here, 
And  sing  me  a  merry  song  aloud 

With  a  voice  that  is  sweet  and  clear. 


130 


THE  GARDEN  OF  YESTERDAY 

I  KNOW  a  garden  fair  to  see,  where  haunting  memories 
there  be 

Of  treasures  lost  and  joys  of  ours,  forgotten,  left 
among  the  flowers; 

Like  toys  of  children  strewn  upon  the  playground  of 
the  leaf  and  lawn ; 

And  many  stand  without  the  gate  who  learn  with  hearts 
disconsolate 

It  swings  but  out  and  none  may  go  in  search  of  treas- 
ures scattered  so, 

For  Time  is  keeper  of  the  way — the  Garden  there  is 
Yesterday. 

All  day  I  stood  beside  the  gate  from  dawn  to  dusk,  and 
saw  them  wait, 

To  plead  with  him  to  clear  the  way,  that  they  might 
search  in  Yesterday; 

But  to  them  all  he  shook  his  head,  "The  way  forever 
closed,"  he  said; 

"I  lost  a  child,"  the  mother  cried ;  "A  sweetheart  I," 
the  lover  sighed; 

"A  song,"  the  poet  said,  "was  there,  sweet-voiced,  in- 
effable and  rare;" 

But  Time,  unyielding,  held  the  way:  "The  place  is 
mine — 'tis  Yesterday !" 


THE   GARDEN    OF   YESTERDAY 

And  came  a  schoolgirl,  tearful-eyed :  "My  playmate !" 

sorrowful,  she  cried ; 
The  felon  said :  "My  liberty — will  you  not  give  it  back 

to  me?" 
"My  gold,"  the  miser  prayed,  "  'tis  there,  the  hoard  I 

loved  and  could  not  spare;" 
"My  youth  is  there,"  the  old  man  said;  the  widow 

whispered  low :  "My  dead." 
"My  honor/'  faltered  the  weak  knave;  "my  strength," 

the  sodden,  sotted  slave; 
And  one  by  one  they  came  to  pray  they  might  go  back 

to  Yesterday. 

And  somewhere  in  the  Garden  gleam  the  gems  of  in- 
nocence and  dream; 

And  somewhere  are  the  loves  that  were ;  the  eyes  and 
cheeks,  the  lips  of  Her. 

Somewhere  the  hearts  from  sorrow  free  and  all  the 
joy  that  was  to  be; 

The  peace  of  Honor  yet  unsoiled;  Ambition's  sweet- 
ness still  unspoiled; 

The  ties  of  love,  the  strength  of  youth,  the  hearts  of 
hope,  the  ways  of  truth ; 

But  Time  is  keeper  of  the  way — the  place  is  his,  'tis 
Yesterday ! 


132 


SOME  QUESTIONS  FOR  YOU 

Do  you  come  nearer  day  by  day 

To  the  port  where  your  dreams  all  anchored  lie? 
Or  do  you  sail  farther  and  far  away 

In  an  angry  sea  with  a  sullen  sky  ? 
Do  you  come  nearer  the  Ought-to-be 

In  the  wagon  you  hitched  to  a  distant  star  ? 
Or  do  you  drift  on  hopelessly, 

Content  to  bide  with  the  Things-that-are  ? 

Are  you  a  Drone  or  a  Do-it-now? 

A  Hurry-up  or  a  Wait-a- while  ? 
A  Do-it-so  or  an  Anyhow  ? 

A  Cheer-up-boys  or  a  Never-smile  ? 
It's  none  of  my  business,  that  I  know, 

For  you  are  the  [captain  and  mate  and  crew 
Of  that  ship  of  yours,  but  the  Where-you-go 

Depends  on  the  What-and-how-you-do. 

Are  you  a  Yes  or  Maybe-so? 

Are  you  a  Will  or  a  Guess-you'11-be  ? 
A  Come-on-lads  or  a  Let's-not-go  ? 

A  Yes-I-will  or  an  Oh-Fll-see? 
It  isn't  the  least  concern  of  mine, 

I  know  that  well,  but  as  time  endures, 
When  they  thresh  the  wheat  and  store  the  wine, 

You'll  find  it  a  big  concern  of  yours. 


133 


HOME 

THE  uncertain  hum  of  the  prairies  when  twilight  is 

dim, 

The  wash  of  the  seas  on  a  battlement  rocky  and  grim, 
The  unbroken  forest  that  breathes  a  druidical  hymn. 

The  plainsman,  sun-beaten,  hears  voices  from  hollow 
and  swell, 

And  where  from  the  mist  of  the  distance  the  deep 
shadows  fell, 

They  came  with  low  murmurs — the  hum  of  the  tenant- 
less  shell. 

The  woodsman  hears  voices — the  sigh  of  the  bough, 

swinging  low, 
The  flutter  of  leaves  in  the  dusk,  till  their  choruses 

grow 
To  be  the  sweet  songs  that  his  forest  has  taught  him 

to  know. 

The  sailor  hears  voices — the  wash  of  the  low-lying  sea, 
The  flap  of  the  gull  in  the  dusk  and  the  harmonies  he 
Has  learned  from  the  Deep,  as  the  Master  has  bade 
it  to  be. 


134 


HOME 

The  plainsman  heard  voices — the  song  that  the  for- 
ester knew, 

And  shuddered  at  dusk,  for  his  burden  of  lonesome- 
ness  grew, 

Nor  :comfort  he  found  in  the  song  of  the  oak  tree  or 
yew. 

The  woodsman  heard  voices — the  wash  of  the  low- 
lying  seas 

And  shuddered  at  dusk,  for  they  were  not  the  sweet 
harmonies 

His  Master  had  taught  him  to  know  in  his  leaves  and 
his  trees. 

The  sailor  heard  voices — the  murmur  of  hollow  and 
swell 

And  shuddered  at  dusk  when  his  burden  of  lonesome- 
ness  fell 

Upon  him  alone,  with  the  hum  of  the  tenantless  shell. 

And  yet  all  alone  in  the  night  where  the  thick  shadows 

creep 
The  plainsman  is  bold  on  his  prairies  and  lays  him  to 

sleep, 
Nor  the  woodsman  fears  aught  of  his  trees,  nor  the 

sailor  his  Deep. 


135 


THE  REVERIES  OF  A  WIDOW 

I. — THE  WORM. 

Now  am  I  like  a  worm  condemned  to  crawl, 

My  happiness  to  burrow  in  the  earth, 
Seeking  communion  with  the  shape  of  all 

My  soul  held  dear ;  to  shun  the  cup  of  mirth ; 
To  banish  laughter  as  a  thing  profane ; 

To  weed  myself  in  black ;  to  rear  a  stone ; 
To  bury  hope ;  to  wander  down  the  lane 

Of  life  forsaken,  cheerless,  and  alone. 

II. THE   CHRYSALIS. 

What  shape  takes  now  my  soul  that  is  not  woe 

Nor  yet  is  happiness;  but  half  between 
The  two;  the  earth  where  I  was  want  to  go 

For  comfort  chills  me  as  a  thing  unclean ; 
I  am  who  am  wife  nor  maid,  what  bids  me  leave 

This  self-abased  state  and  take  on  wings 
To  fly  with  ?  Is't  forbidden  I  shall  grieve 

So  long  upon  the  dust  of  earthly  things? 

III. THE  BUTTERFLY. 

What  airy  wings  are  these,  and  delicate 

That  lift  my  soul  from  earth  and  on  this  flower 
Of  hope  bid  me  to  rest  and  sip,  nor  fret 

Upon  the  sorrow  of  a  vanished  hour? 
Was  it  my  soul  that  yesterday  was  cast 

Into  the  dust  ?  Oh,  Time,  what  magic  lies 
In  that  weird  wand  of  thine  that  gives  at  last 

To  worms  the  shape  and  wings  of  butterflies? 

136 


THE  OLD  PUMP'S  FAREWELL 

AYE,  root  me  up  like  some  dead  tree 

Bereft  of  leaf  and  shade, 
And  in  some  corner  let  me  be 

Irreverently  laid, 
To  waste  my  bones  in  rot  and  rust, 

And  let  me,  once  who  gave 
Cool  draughts  to  man  and  beast,  in  dust 

Find  an  unhonored  grave. 

It  was  thy  father  set  me  here 

A  score  of  years  ago, 
And  bade  cool  water,  crystal  clear, 

In  grateful  streams  to  flow. 
In  all  my  years  no  thirsty  lout 

For  drink  of  me  has  cried 
And  from  my  overflowing  spout 

Has  gone  unsatisfied. 

The  children,  rioting  from  school, 

Have  sought  my  dripping  spout, 
Whence  sparkling  water,  clear  and  cool, 

In  torrents  gushing  out, 
Brought  thirst  a  comforting  eclipse 

With  its  refreshing  draught, 
And  ah !  the  sweetness  of  their  lips 

Pressed  to  me  as  they  quaffed. 

137 


THE    OLD    PUMP'S    FAREWELL 

Then,  speeding  onward  to  their  play, 

I  heard  their  merry  cries, 
And  like  the  tears  that  drip  away 

In  gladness  from  the  eyes, 
The  cool  drops  flowed  and  trickled  down 

My  iron  cheek,  to  see 
How  from  far  corners  of  the  town 

The  thirsty  came  to  me. 

The  dusty  yokel,  worn  and  tasked, 

Tramped  to  me  from  the  road, 
Gripped  hands  with  me,  and  all  unasked 

The  grateful  waters  flowed. 
The  cup  held  by  its  clanking  chain 

He  lifted  oft  and  drained 
Its  crystal  waters  once  again, 

And  some  new  vigor  gained. 

And,  ah,  those  patient  beasts  that  brought 

Their  noses  to  my  tank, 
When  the  red  sun  beat  fiercely  hot 

And  drank,  and  drank,  and  drank 
With  mighty  draughts  and  deep  until 

My  labors  were  nigh  vain 
To  give  them  drink  enough  and  fill 

My  water  tub  again. 


THE    OLD    PUMP'S    FAREWELL 

Nor  all  my  score  of  years  till  now 

Have  I  once  failed  to  cool 
The  thirsty  lip  and  fevered  brow 

From  that  still  rippling  pool 
Wherein  my  feet  have  stood.    My  cup 

In  ready  hands  and  strong- 
Has  dipped  its  crystal  waters  up 

So  long,  so  long,  so  long! 

But  now  my  joints  are  worn  and  old, 

My  spout  is  parched  and  dry ; 
My  cup's  a-leak  and  will  not  hold 

My  drink,  howe'er  I  try. 
So  root  me  up  like  some  old  tree 

Bereft  of  leaf  and  shade, 
And  in  some  corner  let  me  be 

Irreverently  laid. 


139 


THE  HEART'S  LOST 

NOT  that  the  dead  leaves  are  tossed 

Is  the  sharpness  of  grief; 
Not  that  the  tints  of  the  frost 

Streak  the  green  of  the  leaf. 

Not  in  the  shroud  of  the  snow 

That  the  winter  has  spread, 
Not  in  the  pall  is  our  woe 

For  the  summer  that's  dead. 

Not  that  the  ice  fetters  hush 

The  sweet  voice  of  the  rill; 
Not  that  the  song  of  the  thrush 

In  the  forest  is  still. 

Not  that  the  woodbine  is  dead 

On  the  window  and  wall ; 
Not  that  the  robin  has  fled 

From  the  stripped  tree  and  tall. 

Not  that  the  ash  of  the  rose 

In  the  dust  scattered  lies, 
Not  in  the  breath  of  the  snows 

Or  the  winter's  wild  cries. 

But  Oh,  Heart,  what  sorrows  they  bring, 
When  the  red  leaves  are  spread! 

And  Oh,  Heart,  what  dirges  they  sing 
To  thee  of  thy  dead ! 

140 


THE  VOICES  OF  SONG 

THEY  come  to  me  on  wings  of  air,  with  plaintive  lul- 
labies, 

And  many  songs  and  music  rare  they  bring  from  dome- 
less  skies; 

Ah,  me !  They  bid  my  soul  be  fair,  and  nobler  dream- 
ings  rise! 

Naught  am  I  but  interpreter  of  dreams  they  bring  to 

me 

In  hidden  harmonies  that  were  all  veiled  in  mystery 
Until  She  bade  them  speak  through  Her — and  She  is 

Poetry. 

So  many,  many  moods  beguile  the  sweetness  of  Her 

hours ! 
She  frowns,  and  now  again  Her  smile  has  all  the 

speech  of  flowers, 
And  lulling  dreams  Her  moments  while  in  cool  and 

shady  bowers. 

And  often  in  the  moonless  night  on  wings  of  lurid 

flame, 

Her  head  all  aureoled  with  light,  in  majesty  She  came, 
And  bade  me  reach  my  pen  and  write — nor  theme  I 

knew,  nor  name. 


141 


THE  VOICES   OF   SONG 

Nor  aught  vouchsafing  me  of  why,  in  Her  imperious 

mood, 

She  bade  me  only  write,  and  I  but  little  understood, 
Save  I  was  slave  to  Her,  to  die  or  flourish,  as  She 

would. 

Then  voices  whispered  in  my  ears,  like  songs  from 

distant  choirs, 
And  one  told  me  the  tale  of  tears,  and  one  of  those 

hot  fires 
That  flame  through  all  the  sweep  of  years  in  Time's 

consuming  pyres. 

And  one  was  Laughter's  merry  tune,  and  one  was  like 

the  rain 
That  in  the  gloomy  night-tide's  noon  but  beats  and 

beats  again, 
Till  crackling  sedge  and  sandy  dune  are  wet  with  tears 

of  Pain. 

Then  War's  tumultuous  voice  arose,  in  the  harsh  notes 
of  Hate, 

And  thrusts  and  shots  and  shouts  and  blows,  and  thirst 
insatiate 

For  blood,  and  a  red  river  flows  where  beaked  vul- 
tures wait. 


142 


THE  VOICES   OF   SONG 

And  Love's  voice  was  among  the  rest  that  murmured 

in  my  ears, 
With  flute-like  Carolines,  all  blest  with  the  delight  of 

tears, 
As  Grief,  her  sister,  sably  drest,  walked  with  her  down 

the  years. 

My  soul  was  but  a  harp,  and  She  played  gloriously  and 

long, 
As  might  a  Master,  curiously,  with  practiced  touch 

and  strong, 
Strike  all  the  waiting  strings  to  see  if  it  were  fit  for 

song. 

Then  all  the  babbling  tongues  were  stilled,  and  in  the 

dreamy  night 
My  flagging  pen  to  words  I  willed.  Alas !  I  could  not 

write  ; 
And  darkness  all  my  senses  filled  that  She  had  made 

so  light. 

Nor  soul  of  man  has  understood,  nor  tongue  or  man 

can  say 
Why  never  comes  She  when  I  would,  nor  prayers  will 

bid  her  stay; 
But,  like  a  lass  for  favor  sued,  turns  in  caprice  away. 

But  Genius,  like  a  lover,  knows  the  songs  of  seraphim 
That  follow  in  Her  train,  and  goes  with  laughing  eye 

or  dim 
To  sit  with  Her  when  Music  flows  and  She  would 

speak  with  him ! 

143 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DINNER  BELL 

As  long  as  they  fry  spring  chicken, 

As  long  as  young  squabs  are  born, 
As  long  as  my  pulses  quicken 

At  platters  of  fresh  green  corn, 
Sing  me  no  mournful  numbers, 

Chant  me  no  solemn  song; 
As  long  as  we've  sliced  cucumbers 

I  guess  I  can  get  along. 

As  long  as  we've  baked  potatoes 

That  fluff  out  like  flakes  of  snow, 
As  long  as  we've  sliced  tomatoes, 

As  long  as  young  turkeys  grow, 
Bring  me  no  pale  and  pallid 

Refrain  from  a  funeral  song; 
As  long  as  we've  sweetbread  salad 

I  guess  I  can  get  along. 

Bid  not  mine  eyes  be  moist  or 

Red  from  expected  woes, 
As  long  as  they  leave  an  oyster, 

As  long  as  a  lobster  grows, 
How  can  the  times  be  tearful, 

How  can  the  world  be  sad? 
How  scan  we  not  be  cheerful 

As  long  as  they  plank  roe-shad? 

144 


THE    SONG   OF   THE   DINNER   BELL 

As  long  as  the  tall,  hot  biscuit 

Is  dripping  with  honey  sweet, 
You  may  hate  the  world — I'll  risk  it 

As  long  as  we've  things  to  eat. 
No  praises  that  I  might  utter, 

No  splendors  my  fancy  spreads, 
Compare  with  the  yellow  butter 

Spread  thick  on  fresh  home-made  bread. 

What  is  the  sense  of  spoiling 

Life,  with  its  bill-of-fare  ? 
As  long  as  we've  mushrooms  broiling 

Where  is  the  room  for  care? 
Why  should  our  troubles  fret  us, 

Why  should  our  hopes  e'er  fade, 
As  long  as  we've  crisp  head-lettuce, 

With  mayonnaise  overlaid? 

Peace  to  thy  sighing,  brother; 

See  that  thy  tears  are  dried. 
Get  thee  a  steak,  and  smother 

It  with  some  onions,  fried. 
Turkey  with  oyster  dressing, 

Beef  with  its  gravy  brown. 
Life?   It  is  one  grand  blessing — 

Dinner  is  served — sit  down ! 


Vol.   Ill— 10 


145 


THE  REAL  ISSUE 

THERE  are  two  issues,  after  all, 
Above  the  ones  that  speech  may  call 

Or  wisdom  utter; 
Two  issues  that  with  me  and  you 
Are  most  important — and  the  two 

Are  bread  and  butter. 

Let  patriotic  banners  wave, 
Let  economic  speakers  rave; 

Tis  not  potential 
That  Art  proclaim  or  Music  sing, 
The  Loaf  is,  after  all,  the  thing 

That's  most  essential. 

Truth  seeks  some  broader  meeting  place 
For  breed  or  clan  or  tribe  or  race, 

For  saint  and  sinner; 
But  after  all  the  noise  and  fuss 
The  issue  paramount  with  us 

Is__What  for  dinner? 

146 


THE  REAL  ISSUE 

New  theories  we  may  evolve, 

Old  governments  we  may  dissolve, 

New  flags  float  o'er  us, 
And  Truth  may  search  and  Wisdom  think, 
Still  these  two  planks  of  meat  and  drink 

Are  yet  before  us. 

So  let  contention  hotly  wage 
And  let  the  wars  of  logic  rage 

In  discourse  fretted; 
When  all  the  clamor  is  complete 
The  issue  still  is  what  to  eat — 

And  how  to  get  it ! 


147 


THE  WOES  OF  THE  CONSUMER 

FM  only  a  consumer  and  it  really  doesn't  matter 
How  they  crowd  me  in  the  street  cars  till  I  couldn't 

well  be  flatter ; 

I'm  only  a  consumer  and  the  strikers  may  go  striking 
For  it's  mine  to  end  my  living  if  it  isn't  to  my  liking. 
I  am  only  a  consumer  and  I  have  no  special  mission 
Except  to  pay  the  damages.  Mine  is  a  queer  position, 
The  Fates  unite  to  squeeze  me  till  I  couldn't  well  be 

flatter 
But  I'm  only  a  consumer,  so  it  really  doesn't  matter. 

The  baker  tilts  the  price  of  bread  upon  the  vaguest 

rumor 

Of  damage  to  the  wheat  crop,  but  I'm  only  a  consumer 
So  it  really  doesn't  matter,  for  there's  no  law  that 

compels  me. 
To  pay  the  added  charges  on  the  loaf  of  bread  he  sells 

me. 
The  ice  man  leaves  a  smaller  piece  when  days  are 

growing  hotter 

But  I'm  only  a  consumer  and  I  do  not  need  iced  water, 
My  business  is  to  draw  the  checks  and  keep  in  a  good 

humor 
And  it  really  doesn't  matter,  for  I'm  only  a  consumer ! 

148 


THE  WOES   OF   THE  CONSUMER 

The  milkman  waters  milk  for  me ;  there's  garlic  in  my 

butter 

But  I'm  only  a  [consumer,  so  it  does  no  good  to  mutter. 
I  know  that  coal  is  going  up  and  beef  is  getting  higher 
But  I'm  only  a  consumer  and  I  have  no  need  of  fire. 
And  beefsteak  is  a  luxury  that  wealth  alone  is  needing, 
I'm  only  a  consumer  and  I  have  no  need  of  feeding. 
My  business  is  to  pay  the  bills  and  keep  in  a  good 

humor 
For  I  have  no  other  mission,  since  I'm  only  a  consumer. 

The  grocer  sells  me  addled  eggs;  the  tailor  sells  me 

shoddy 

But  I'm  only  a  consumer  and  I  am  not  anybody. 
The  cobbler  pegs  me  paper  soles;  the  dairyman  short 

weights  me, 

I'm  only  a  consumer  and  most  everybody  hates  me. 
There's  turnip  in  my  pumpkin  pie  and  ashes  in  my 

pepper, 

The  world's  my  lazaretto  and  I'm  nothing  but  a  leper, 
So  lay  me  in  my  lonely  grave  and  tread  the  turf  down 

flatter, 
I'm  only  a  consumer  and  it  really  doesn't  matter. 


149 


VANITY 

AT  five  a  maiden's  wants  are  few : 
A  set  of  blocks,  a  doll  or  two; 
A  little  place  inside  to  play 
If  it  should  come  a  rainy  day ; 
A  pair  of  shoes,  a  pinafore ; 
I  really  think  of  nothing  more. 

Nor  wants  she  overmuch  at  ten ; 
A  birthday  party  now  and  then, 
A  bit  of  ribbon  for  her  hair, 
A  little  better  dress  to  wear, 
Perhaps  a  pony  cart  to  drive — 
A  bit  more  than  she  did  at  five. 

A  modest  increase  at  fifteen; 
A  party  dress,  in  red  or  green, 
A  room  alone  that  she  may  fix 
With  bric-a-brac  and  candlesticks, 
A  parasol,  a  fan — and,  oh! 
I  quite  forgot  to  add — a  beau. 

150 


VANITY 

At  twenty  she  is  quite  above 
All  childish  wants — she  asks  but  love, 
And  dreams  of  Princes,  tall  and  fair, 
Who  come  a-wooing  and  who  dare 
All  dangers ;  and  she  keeps  apart 
For  him  the  castle  of  her  heart. 

At  twenty-five  her  fancy  goes 
To  bonnets,  frills,  and  furbelows, 
A  country  place,  a  house  in  town, 
A  better  rig  than  Mrs.  Brown 
Or  Black  or  Jones,  and  just  a  wee 
Small  figure  in  Society. 

At  thirty — well,  a  little  tea 
For  the  distinguished  Mrs.  B., 
Who  writes — a  Prince  to  entertain, 
A  long-haired  Lion  to  make  vain 
With  silly  tricks,  a  horse  show  box 
And  just  a  little  plunge  in  stocks. 

At  thirty-five  and  forty — well 
There  isn't  much  that's  new  to  tell ; 
A  little  bigger  country  place, 
A  real  good  lotion  for  her  face, 
And  some  reduction  made  in  those 
One  can  afford  to  say  she  knows. 


VANITY 

At  fifty — does  her  fancy  end? 
She  wants — ah,  yes,  she  wants  a  friend 
To  prove  her  years  were  not  in  vain; 
She  wants  those  dreams  of  youth  again, 
When  Princes-errant,  tall  and  fair, 
Lived,  loved,  and  came  a-wooing  there. 

At  seventy  she  wants  to  know 
Why  Vanity  and  hollow  show 
Tempt  Wisdom  from  its  lofty  seat. 
She  wants  but  ease  for  gouty  feet, 
And  peace  to  wonder  what  must  be 
The  last  leaf's  musings  on  the  tree. 


152 


THE  ARCHER'S  SHAFT 

A  FEATHERED  aiTOW  to  his  bow 

The  archer  Hatred  fitted  taut, 
Drew  tight  the  bowstring,  kneeling  low, 
And  forth  a  venomed  message  shot. 

So  full  his  quiver  he  forgot, 
Ere  died  the  twang  of  his  bowstring, 

The  poisoned  shaft  that  forth  he  shot, 
The  venomed  message  set  a-wing. 

Until,  as  through  the  wood  he  sped 
Another  day,  he  found  it  where 

A  heart,  fell  stricken,  lying  dead, 
The  shaft  had  pierced  and  quivered  there. 


153 


THE  DESPAIRING  MUSE 

SOMEBODY  has  stolen  the  old  garden  gate, 

The  millwheel  has  gone  to  decay, 
The  old  oaken  bucket  is  missing  of  late, 

It  must  have  been  taken  away. 
The  little  red  school  house  is  wrecked  and  torn  down 

Neglected  its  sad  ruins  lie, 
The  moths  have  quite  eaten  up  grandmother's  gown, 

The  old  swimming  hole  has  gone  dry. 

Somebody  has  taken  the  old  trundle  bed, 

And  broken  the  old  cookie  jar, 
The  old  milking  stool  in  its  wreckage  is  spread 

Out  there  where  the  chopping  blocks  are; 
The  old  lilac  bushes  that  grew  in  the  yard 

Are  pulled  up  and  missing  somehow; 
Ah  me,  but  the  prospect  is  bitter  and  hard, 

For  what  shall  we  write  about  now? 

The  old  rustic  bridge  is  a  wreck  by  the  brook, 

They've  paid  off  the  mortgage,  I  see, 
Whose  trials  and  tears  have  filled  many  a  book, 

And  cut  down  the  old  apple  tree; 
The  old  dry  goods  box  at  the  grocery  store 

Is  split  into  kindlings  at  last, 
The  day  of  the  Neighborhood  Poet  is  o'er, 

His  verses  are  things  of  the  past. 


154 


THE    DESPAIRING    MUSE 

The  old  log  and  dead  that  was  there  by  the  creek 

Has  fallen  down  into  the  stream, 
No  more  may  we  sit  there  and  patiently  seek 

To  weave  the  old  days  in  a  dream ; 
The  old  attic  bedroom's  a  thing  of  the  past, 

The  old  iron  pump  is  no  more, 
And  here  by  the  kitchen  we  stand  quite  aghast: 

They've  pulled  up  the  old  cellar  door! 

The  old  cottage  organ  is  hopelessly  lost, 

The  rain  barrel's  gone  to  decay, 
The  old  stepping  stones  we  so  frequently  crossed 

Somebody  has  taken  away. 
They've  rebuilt  the  house,  so  old-fashioned  and  queer, 

And  butchered  the  old  brindle  cow; 
Ah,  Muse,  let  us  go!    We  are  not  welcome  here! 

But  what  shall  we  write  about  now? 


155 


THE  TOYS  OF  YESTERYEAR 

PRAY,  where  are  the  toys  of  Yesteryear: 

The  jumping- jack  with  its  flaring  red, 
The  fuzzy  dog  and  the  antlered  deer, 

The  drum  with  its  sticks  and  tuneful  head, 
The  Noah's  ark  with  its  wooden  crew, 

The  building  blocks  with  the  letters  on? 
The  child  has  toys  that  are  bright  and  new, 

But  where,  pray  where,  have  the  old  friends  gone? 

Somewhere  in  the  attic  in  'corner  dark 

The  jumping-jack  and  the  split  drum  lie, 
The  wooden  crew  of  the  Noah's  ark 

And  the  tin  of  the  battered  infantry. 
There,  half  by  the  rubbish  and  dust  concealed, 

The  fuzzy  dog  and  the  wooden  deer, 
The  building  blocks  with  their  colors  peeled 

Half  off;  and  the  stringless  top  is  here. 

156 


THE  TOYS   OF  YESTERYEAR 

Pray,  where  are  the  toys  of  the  Yesteryear, 

The  gaudy  dreams  with  their  colors  gay, 
The  castled  hopes  that  were  passing  dear, 

The  joys  of  our  boyhood's  merry  play? 
The  man  has  toys  that  are  bright  and  new, 

On  the  wreck  of  dreams  new  dreams  appear, 
But  where  are  the  hopes  of  the  flaring  hue 

That  were  our  toys  of  the  Yesteryear? 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  the  dead  dreams  fade, 

The  broken  idol  and  shattered  vase, 
The  castled  hopes  in  their  ruins  laid 

Come  here  to  a  common  trysting  place. 
Half  hid  by  the  rubbish  and  dust  of  days 

The  wrecks  of  unnumbered  dreams  are  here 
That  made  us  glad  in  a  hundred  ways, 

And  these  are  the  toys  of  the  Yesteryear. 


157 


THE  SECRET 

THERE'S  a  little  word  called  "Sweetheart;"  it's  as  old 

as  heaven's  blue; 
'Tis  the  sweetest  word  e'er  spoken  and  its  joy  is  ever 

new; 
It  was  Love's  first  murmured  message,  spoken  in  the 

ears  of  Love, 
When  the  Earth  took  shape  from  nothing  and  the  blue 

sky  arched  above; 
It  has  come  through  Time  unmeasured;  it  has  lived 

unnumbered  years; 
It  was  born  of  smiles  and  laughter  and  has  dried 

Grief's  countless  tears; 

It's  the  magic  soul  of  Music  and  the  living  fire  of  Art, 
And  I've  chosen  it  to  give  thee — just  that  little  word — 

"Sweetheart." 

Ah,  the  aching  hearts  and  heavy  it  has  bidden  heat 

and  smile; 
It  has  bidden  Youth  be  merry  and  has  cheered  the 

Afterwhile 
Of  the  years  to  peace  and  gladness  and  the  dreary  days 

and  long 
Are  forgotten  in  the  glory  of  its  whispered  evensong. 

158 


THE  SECRET 

It  has  made  the  heart  go  leaping  of  the  schoolboy  at 

his  play; 
It  has  filled  with  gladder  dreaming  all  the  sunshine 

of  his  day; 
It  has  bridged  world-sundered  chasms  and  has  played 

the  noblest  part 
In  the  life  and  strife  of  being — just  that  little  word — 

"Sweetheart." 

It  has  cheered  the  eve  of  battles ;  it  has  fired  the  Heart 

of  Dawn; 
It  has  braved  the  mouth  of  cannon  and  has  borne  war's 

banners  on; 
It  has  lured  the  soldier  Deathward,  where  the  scarp 

was  red  and  steep; 
It  has  trembled  like  a  blessing  on  the  ashen  lips  of 

Sleep ; 
It  has  hushed  the  cry  of  children ;  it  has  fired  the  souls 

of  men, 
Beaten  back  on  shores  of  Failure  to  be  bold  and  strong 

again  ; 
In  the  hermit's  cloistered  silence  or  in  Traffic's  busy 

mart, 
It  is  of  all,  in  all,  through  all — just  that  little  word 

"Sweetheart." 


159 


THE   SECRET 

And  forever  and  forever  through  the  endlessness  of 

Time, 
It  shall  hallow  song  and  story  and  shall  be  the  soul 

of  rhyme ; 
It  shall  be  a  part  of  Being,  much  as  heartbeat,  much  as 

breath, 
It  shall  be  the  joy  of  living  and  the  overthrow  of 

Death; 
So  I  bid  thee  kneel  and  listen  till  I  whisper  thee  the 

key, 
Till  I  tell  thee  why  is  Labor,  Life,  Love,  Death,  and 

Mystery ; 
Hut  or  palace,  serf  or  master,  clod  or  genius,  toil  or 

art, 
It  is  of  all,  in  all,  through  all — just  that  little  word 

"Sweetheart." 


160 


VANITIES 

"GiVE  me  Fame,"  cried  the  genius. 

The  wizard's  smile  was  grim; 
His  arm  stretched  forth  and  a  tasteless  fruit 

Plucked  from  a  rotten  limb. 
"I  seek,  sir,  Fame,"  cried  the  genius, 

"Ye  have  given  me  instead 
A  rotten  fruit."   The  wizard  spoke: 

"This  is  Fame,"  he  said. 

"Give  me  Power,"  cried  the  monarch. 

The  wizard  smiled  again. 
A  crown  of  thorns  he  gave  to  him 

And  a  sword  with  a  bloody  stain. 
"But  I  seek  Power,"  cried  the  monarch, 

"What  have  ye  given  instead  ?" 
The  wizard  spoke:  "I  tell  thee,  Sire, 

These  are  Power/'  he  said. 

Vol.  Ill— 11  J6l 


VANITIES 

"Give  me  Love/'  cried  the  maiden. 

The  wizard  sadly  smiled; 
A  bleeding  heart  he  gave  to  her, 

And  the  form  of  a  cold,  dead  child. 
"I  asked  for  Love,"  mused  the  maiden, 

"Ye  have  given  me  Grief  instead." 
The  wizard  sighed  and  softly  spoke: 

"Love  is  Grief,"  he  said. 

"Give  me  Peace,"  cried  the  weary  soul. 

The  wizard  laughed  aloud, 
Drew  forth  from  his  store  of  treasure 

And  gave  to  him  a  shroud. 
"I  asked  for  Peace,"  he  shuddered, 

"Ye  gave  me  Death,  instead." 
The  wizard  mused.  "I  tell  thee 

That  this  is  Peace,"  he  said. 


162 


THE  TOWN  OF  IMPOSSIBLEVILLE 

I  LIVE  in  the  town  of  Impossibleville — a  village  ec- 
centric and  nice, 
Where  no  matter  how  hot  is  the  Midsummer  day  the 

iceman  leaves  plenty  of  ice; 
The  dairyman  never  once  waters  the  milk,  but  leaves 

yellow  cream  in  his  wake ; 
The  baker  gives  always  a  full  loaf  of  bread  and  the 

butcher  serves  porterhouse  steak. 
The  coal  man  gives  two  thousand  pounds  for  a  ton, 

nor  weighs  up  the  man  with  his  load, 
There  isn't  a  lawyer,  a  judge  or  a  court  and  the  old, 

Golden  Rule  is  the  Code. 
It  lies  in  the  valley  'twixt  Honesty  Flats  and  the  top 

of  Millenium  hill. 
And  is  peopled  by  poets  and  dreamers  and  such — is 

the  town  of  Impossibleville. 

'Tis  a  wonderful  place  is  Impossiblevillej  where  there's 

never  a  scramble  for  pelf, 
And  the  rights  of  man's  neighbors  are  valued  as  high 

as  the  rights  that  he  claims  for  himself. 
No  hand-organ  man  on  the  street  ever  grinds  out  his 

ancient,  soul-harrowing  tunes, 
Nor  the  man  who  must  board  haunted  three  times  a 

day  with  small  dishes  of  watery  prunes ; 

163 


THE    TOWN    OF    IMPOSSIBLEVILLE 

There's  only  one  church  in  Impossibleville  and  that's 

about  all  that  it  needs, 
Nor  do  people  lose  sight  of  the  kernel  of  good  in  the 

chaff  of  their  musty  old  creeds. 
It's  just  over  there  where  the  Golden  Rule  Heights 

overlook  the  green  vale  of  Goodwill 
And  it's  peopled  with  folks  it  might  please  you  to  meet 

is  the  town  of  Impossibleville. 

The  sewing  society  there  never  meets  unless  there  is 

something  to  sew, 
Good  deeds  are  the  coin  of  the  realm  and  no  man  but 

may  settle  in  Millionaire's  Row. 
The  cider's  all  made  from  the  ripest  of  fruit  and  open 

at  bottom  or  top, 
The  barrel  of  apples  looks  equally  good  for  there's 

only  one  salable  crop. 
No  matter  what  happens  the  cook  never  quits,  nor  ever 

was  known  one  to  scold, 
The  weather  is  perfect  the  whole  livelong  year,  nor 

ever  too  hot  or  too  cold ; 
It's  right  over  there  'twixt  the  town  of  Don't  Fret  and 

the  top  of  Millenium  Hill 
And  is  peopled  with  poets  and  dreamers  and  such — is 

the  town  of  Impossibleville. 


164 


THE    TOWN    OF    IMPOSSIBLEVILLE 

If  you'd  reach  the  cool  shades  of  Impossibleville,  you 

must  start  on  your  journey  in  Youth, 
Turn  aside  from  the  main-traveled  road  and  set  foot 

on  the  little  used  pathway  of  Truth, 
Press  on  past  the  town  of  Fair  Play  and  Don't  Fret  till 

you  climb  up  the  Golden  Rule  Heights, 
And  then  you  may  look  down  the  vale  of  Good  Cheer 

and  see  all  of  these  wonderful  sights ; 
But  many  have  set  out  with  hope  and  light  hearts 

determined  to  reach  this  fair  spot 
Who  someway  have  strayed  from  the  little-used  path 

and  are  lost  in  the  wastes  of  Dry  Rot, 
But  it's  right  over  there  'twixt  the  town  of  Fair  Play 

and  the  top  of  Millenium  Hill, 
And  it's  peopled  with  poets  and  dreamers  and  such — 

is  the  town  of  Impossibleville. 


165 


THE  TOAST  OF  MERRIMENT 

GOOD  humor !  Let's  have  more  of  it ; 
Let's  spice  the  wine  of  life  with  wit; 
The  little  day  we  tarry  here 
Let  flow  the  sunshine  of  good  cheer. 
Find  not  in  sober  sense  such  zest 
We  have  no  time  for  quip  or  pest, 
Nor  o'er  our  tasks  so  roundly  bent 
We  drink  no  toast  to  merriment. 

Oh,  you  whose  sober  self  all  gowned 
With  gloom,  and  who  so  oft  has  frowned, 
A  smile  could  scarce  find  resting  place 
Upon  your  worn  and  wrinkled  face, 
Let  loose  a  laugh,  to  tell  the  world 
Your  heart's  dried  substance  has  not  curled 
Like  a  wormed  nut,  to  rattle  in 
Your  moldy  shell  of  bone  and  skin. 


166 


THE  TOAST  OF  MERRIMENT 

And  you,  whose  soul  is  so  engrossed 
With  duns  and  dollars,  drink  the  toast 
And  let  your  honest  laughter  teach 
Your  stunted  sense  the  sweeter  speech 
Of  merriment.    From  your  tired  head 
Remove  the  gallows-hood  of  dread 
Lest  you  should  miss  a  wage  or  fee 
And  wear  this  cap  and  bells  with  me. 

A  thousand  years  your  mummied  skin 
Will  have  no  seed  of  laughter  in, 
And  in  your  sober  grave  find  rest 
All  undisturbed  of  quip  and  jest. 
Then  be  not  sullen,  sordid,  dull, 
An  ever-walking  funeral, 
But  laugh,  for  you  and  Laughter  when 
You  part  may  never  meet  again. 


167 


A  PLAIN  LITTLE  WOMAN 

JUST  a  plain  little  woman,  with  plain  little  ways, 

Who  "tidies"  the  parlor  with  sweeping  and  dusting ; 
Whose  nights  are  for  resting  between  two  tired  days, 

Whose  faith  is  abiding,  Heaven-seeking,  God-trust- 
ing; 
A  tired  little  woman,  who  puts  lads  to  bed, 

And  lassies,  and  tucks  them  all  in  with  caressing; 
Who  breathes  a  sweet  prayer  over  each  little  head, 

And  devoutly  knows  God  and  the  worth  of  His 
blessing. 

A  worn  little  woman,  yet  wearing  a  smile 

That  resists  the  attack  of  all  time  upon  beauty; 
Who  is,  oh,  such  a  distance  from  fashion  and  style, 

But  always  so  close  upon  patience  and  duty ; 
Whose  days  are  a  struggle  of  making  ends  meet, 

Whose  brow  is  deep  lined  with  the  real  cost  of  living, 
Whose  soul  has  been  tried  fifty  years  and  found  sweet, 

Who  knows  naught  of  getting,  but  knows  all  of 
giving. 

A  good  little  woman,  who  somehow  has  learned 

The  lesson  of  faith  that  withstands  every  trial, 
Whose  wifehood  and  motherhood  nobly  have  earned 

The  crown  of  her  glory  with  thorns  of  denial; 
A  real  little  woman,  who  gives  to  the  world 

Her  children,  reared  up  in  the  ways  of  right  living ; 
Whose  brow  is  all  laureled,  whose  heart  is  all  pearled 

With  year  in  and  year  out  of  loving  and  giving. 

168 


A  PLAIN  LITTLE  WOMAN 

A  glad  little  woman  for  just  a  dim  ray 

Of  light  in  this  world  with  its  wonder  and  splendor ; 
Who  is  never  too  tired  at  the  close  of  her  day 

To  be  watchful  with  love  that  is  wistful  and  tender; 
Who  knits  and  who  patches  and  over  her  thread 

And  needle  and  yarn  in  the  nighttime  is  bending, 
When  all  of  her  world  and  its  treasures  in  bed, 

Whose  rest  ne'er  begins  and  whose  tasks  never 
ending. 

A  plain  little  woman  with  plain  little  ways, 

Whose  life  is,  God  knows,  such  a  dull  little  story; 
Who  mothers  a  brood  all  her  tired  little  days — 

What  measure  of  treasure  shall  be  hers  in  glory! 
Who  knows  her  as  I  do,  and  treasures  the  smile 

That  resists  the  attacks  of  all  time  upon  beauty; 
Whose  ways  were  so  far  cast  from  fashion  and  style, 

But,  oh,  who  walked  close  beside  patience  and  duty  ? 


169 


A  FRIEND  WENT  THEN 

HUSH  !  A  friend  went  then ; 

Went  with  a  tear  of  sorrow  in  his  eye; 

A  friend  too  old  to  lose,  too  young  to  die; 

Went  at  a  hasty  word  of  mine  and  hot ; 

Grieved  in  his  inner  heart  and  then — was  not; 

He  lives  and  speaks  with  me,  but  naught  beside, 

My  friend  has  died. 

Hush !  A  friend  passed  on ; 

Passed  on  in  silence,  uncomplainingly; 

Nor  stopped  to  parry  angry  words  with  me ; 

Passed  on,  sore  hurt,  but  keeping  back  his  tears, 

Passed  on  upon  the  stony  way  of  years ; 

Well  knowing  me,  but  though  he  bows  his  head — 

My  friend  is  dead. 

Hush !  A  friend  is  lost ; 

A  sneer  of  mine,  that  cost  me  but  a  breath, 

And  fell  my  friend,  sore  wounded,  to  his  death; 

Nor  made  he  any  pry  to  tell  the  pain 

He  felt — just  went  and  came  not  back  again ; 

And  though  to-day  again  our  pathways  crossed, 

My  friend  is  lost. 

Hush !  A  friend  was  slain ; 

Just  then — struck  down  in  the  broad  light  of  day; 

As  fell  a  crime,  I  know,  as  ever  lay 

At  murder's  door — it  cost  me  but  a  jeer 

At  him  who  craved  but  sympathy — a  tear 

I  shed  and  bid  him  come  to  me  in  vain — 

My  friend  is  slain. 

170 


ALONE 

I  THINK  ten  million  worlds  there  be 

Instead  of  one;  and  ten  times  ten; 
A  world  for  you  and  one  for  me ; 

A  world  for  each  one  soul  again; 
And  each  is  peopled  with  its  dreams, 

Its  hot  ambitions  and  desires; 
Each  has  its  fields  and  running  streams, 

And  its  low  burning  altar  fires. 

And  you  and  I  walk  far  apart, 

You  in  your  world  and  I  in  mine ; 
You  with  the  comrades  of  your  heart 

And  dreams,  and  cheering  suns  may  shine 
Upon  the  ways  you  go,  and  I 

May  speak  with  you,  but  from  you  far 
As  deeps  of  sea  from  vaulted  sky, 

As  pit  of  earth  from  peak  of  star. 

Each  life  a  universe  where  runs 

Space  I  may  fathom  not  or  you ; 
Its  independent  course  of  suns, 

Its  sunshine,  shower,  and  its  dew; 
Each  throb  of  heart,  each  thrill  of  soul 

A  blazing  comet  in  the  blue, 
And  lightnings  flash  and  billows  roll 

For  me,  but  all  unseen  to  you. 


171 


ALONE 

Across  a  chasm  black  as  ink 

And  deep  as  chaos  we  join  hands 
In  hollow  greeting,  and  we  drink 

A  pledge,  and  neither  understands. 
And  we  set  out  upon  the  way, 

Each  with  his  world  of  mind  and  heart, 
And  will  be  as  we  have  been  aye, 

A  hundred  million  miles  apart. 

So  what  of  us  may  be  the  soul 

Walks  all  alone  upon  its  way 
To  its  extinction  or  its  goal, 

Where  spirits  greet  or  worms  decay; 
Walks  all  alone  and  none  may  see 

What  dreams  may  be  or  what  have  been, 
Your  world  for  you,  my  world  for  me, 

That  none  may  know  or  enter  in. 


172 


TRIFLES 

HE  took  a  little  flyer, 

That  was  all; 
He  thought  he  knew  the  wire 

Had  the  call. 
He  took  a  little  flyer 
And  he  went  up  high  and  higher ; 
Now  his  fat  is  in  the  fire, 

That  is  all. 

He  played  a  little  poker, 

That  was  all; 
When  his  wife  complained  he'd  joke  her- 

Stakes  were  small. 
He  played  a  little  poker 
At  a  purely  social  smoker, 
And  he  died  dead-broke  or  broke-er, 

That  is  all. 

He  used  to  play  the  horses, 

That  was  all ; 
Had  tips  from  all  the  courses 

For  a  haul. 

He  used  to  play  the  horses 
Till  he  used  up  his  resources; 
Now  he  knows  just  what  remorse  is, 

That  is  all. 

173 


TRIFLES 

He  was  just  a  rare  good  fellow, 

That  was  all; 
Without  a  streak  of  yellow 

Great  or  small. 

He  was  just  a  rare  good  fellow 
And  his  moods  were  often  mellow. 
What!    Another  shortage?   Hello! 

That  is  all. 

He  only  meant  to  borrow, 

That  is  all; 
To  put  it  back  tomorrow, 

Sum  was  small. 
He  only  meant  to  borrow, 
But  he  found  out  to  his  sorrow 
That  it  never  comes  tomorrow, 

That  is  all. 


174 


THE  GRADUATE 

WHO,  when  the  graduate  comes  home,  begowned,  be- 

ribboned  and  belearned, 
Are  there  to  meet  him  and  to  reap  the  joys  their  years 

of  toil  have  earned? 
Who  gaze  with  awe  upon  his  face,  with  love  into  his 

scholar's  eye, 
And  wonder  what  great  glories  hold  for  him  the  hands 

of  Destiny? 
Who  air  his  room  and  fluff  his  bed  and  count  upon  the 

calendar 
The  days  to  pass  till  he  shall  come  from  where  the  seats 

of  Learning  are? 
Who  watch  his  lips  whene'er  they  move  and  some  clear 

pearl  of  Wisdom  falls? 
'Tis  Mother  in  her  gingham  gown  and  Father  in  his 

overalls. 

Who  glory  in  the  strength  he  has ;  who  wonder  at  the 

way  he  grows ; 
Who  pin  their  faith  to  him  alone  and  marvel  at  the 

much  he  knows ; 
Who  sit  and  hear  him  speak,  with  awe,  that  so  much 

wisdom  should  o'erflow 
From  lips  that  were  a  little  boy's,  oh!  such  a  little 

while  ago? 


175 


THE   GRADUATE 

Who  rise  at  dawn  to  do  the  chores  that  he  may  rest 

and  so  regain 
The  vigor  that  was  sapped  beneath  his  Alma  Mater's 

nervous  strain? 
And  who,  at  eight  o'clock  or  nine,  goes  to  his  door 

and  gently  calls? 
'Tis  Mother  in  her  gingham  gown  or  Father  in  his 

overalls. 

Who  was  it,  all  those  years  ago,  when  times  were 

hard  and  crops  were  small, 
Talked  long  at  night  of  ways  and  means  and  John 

to  go  to  school  that  Fall  ? 
Who  saved  and  patched  and  self-denied,  who  stood 

above  the  dripping  churn, 
Who  walked  the  furrow  with  the  plow  that  John 

might  fare  afar  and  learn? 
Who  read  his  letters  once  a  week  by  one  dim  candle's 

fitful  gleam. 
When  he  was  gaining  deathless  fame  as  half-back  on 

the  college  team  ? 
And  who  could  dream  and  hear  his  voice  ring  out 

through  Wisdom's  classic  halls? 
'Twas  Mother  in  her  gingham  gown  and  Father  in  his 

overalls. 


176 


THE   GRADUATE 

Who  stand  behind  the  scenes  to  prompt  and  cheer  and 
speed  him  in  the  play? 

Whose  hands  and  hearts  are  ever  warm  to  guide  and 
help  him  on  his  way? 

Who  never  lost  their  faith  in  him,  whose  love  abides 
through  all  the  years? 

Who  ask  no  more — that  he's  come  home — for  all  the 
time  of  toil  and  tears  ? 

So  when  his  thesis  is  prepared,  when  with  rare  elo- 
quence he  cries : 

"Who  are  the  Heroes  ?  What  is  Fame  ?  Who  saves  the 
State?  Where  Honor  Lies?" 

I  see  the  Heroes,  Saviors,  stand  behind  him  as  the  cur- 
tain falls, 

See  Mother  in  her  gingham  gown  and  Father  in  his 
overalls. 


Vol.    Ill— 12 


177 


THE  PLACE  BEYOND 

THEY  call  the  Place  To-Morrow — After  While, 

The  Way,  Be-Patient,  Keep-of-Heart-and-Cheer ; 
'Tis  over  there,  a  bit  beyond  the  stile, 

A  little  farther  on,  but  never  here. 
And  all  day  long  and  through  the  fretful  night 

I  saw  them  struggle,  toil,  keep  dreaming  on 
Through  valleys,  up  the  hills  and  o'er  the  height, 

But  ever  when  they  reached  there  it  was  gone ! 

And  if  they  toiled  a  mile,  it  moved  a  mile 

Along  the  road.   At  break  of  every  day 
They  thought  to  reach  it  in  a  little  while 

But  at  the  dusk  it  seemed  as  far  away 
As  when  the  day  began;  they  saw  the  lights 

That  flickered  through  the  dusk  a  weary  mile, 
Along  the  road,  and  some  toiled  on  o'  nights, 

They  call  the  Place  To-morrow— After  While! 

And  some  fell  faint  and  some  were  red  and  strong 

With  coursing  blood  that  would  not  be  denied. 
If  through  the  valleys  dim  the  way  was  long, 

The  Place  was  just  upon  the  other  side. 
If  up  the  hills  the  journey  led  and  steep 

And  rough  the  way,  the  bells  of  it  rang  clear, 
And  some  I  saw  to  run  and  some  to  creep, 

And  fell  a  curse,  and  now  and  then  a  tear. 

178 


THE  PLACE  BEYOND 

Oft  in  the  twilight,  voices  from  the  dusk 

About  the  Place  bade  fallen  men  to  rise, 
Fame  sang  the  glories  of  her  certain  Husk 

And  Beauty  lured  men  on  with  wanton  eyes; 
Worn  women  heard  the  chant  of  Rest,  so  near, 

And  yet  no  nearer  ever,  day  on  day, 
But  Oh,  the  bells  at  Vespers  echoed  clear — 

They  ;c.all  the  Place  To-morrow — or  Someday ! 

They  call  the  Place  To-Morrow—After  While, 

With  gleaming  tower  on  tower  and  spire  on  spire, 
It  rises  there,  ten  leagues,  a  league,  a  mile 

Beyond  the  day — the  City  of  Desire ! 
Long  days  of  Rest  are  there,  and  Joy  and  Peace 

And  Music  and  Content  and  Sorrows  Done, 
Of  Dreams  Come  True  and  Longings  Bidden  Cease, 

Of  Weary  Hearts  Made  Glad  and  Struggles  Won. 

So  I  will  join  you,  Brother,  on  the  Way 

They  call  Have-Patience,  Be-of-Heart-and-Cheer, 
And  we  will  look  a  league  beyond  the  day 

Whence  come  the  voices,  musical  and  clear ; 
'Tis  just  across  the  valley,  o'er  the  height, 

Adown  the  road,  a  step  beyond  the  stile. 
Let's  toil  a  day  and  dream  another  night — 

They  call  the  Place  To-morrow— After  While! 


179 


COMRADES 

I  WANT  to  meet  the  Day 

With  gladness  and  a  smile ; 
I  want  to  keep  the  Way 

With  hopefulness  the  while ; 
I  want  to  see  the  task 

With  clearness  and  delight, 
All  this  I  scome  to  ask, 

And  sleep  and  peace  at  night. 

I  want  to  be  content 

And  yet  unsatisfied; 
To  do  the  things  I  meant 

To  do,  or  know  I  tried. 
I  want  to  see  in  dusk 

And  sunset's  flaming  fire 
A  beacon — not  the  husk 

Of  day's  unfilled  desire. 

Whoso  may  go  my  way 

I  want  to  walk  with  me ; 
To  hope  with  if  I  may, 

To  pray  with  if  need  be. 
Whoso  may  teach,  to  learn 

Of  him  whereof  I  need, 
Whoso  may  learn,  to  preach 

Perhaps  a  better  creed. 

180 


COMRADES 

Whoso  is  weak,  to  bring 

My  strength  where  e'er  he  lies; 
Whoso  is  strong,  to  cling 

To  him  that  I  may  rise. 
Whoso  may  grieve,  to  brave 

With  him  the  quivering  lip, 
Whoso  may  smile,  to  crave 

A  joyous  fellowship. 

Will  you  not  walk  with  me 

Upon  the  way  awhile  ? 
I  crave  your  sympathy, 

I  offer  you  a  smile. 
The  way  be  steep  and  long, 

I  ask  to  grasp  your  hand, 
I  offer  you  a  song; 

Will  you  not  understand? 


181 


THE   DISSENTERS 

SCALPEL  declares  it's  my  liver; 

Says  I  need  surgery  bad ; 
Capsule  says  it  makes  him  shiver, 

Cuttin'  has  grown  such  a  fad; 
Scalpel  says  I'll  not  be  better 

Till  I  come  down  an'  git  fixed, 
Capsule  says  wrong  to  the  letter — 

Gosh,  how  this  Science  is  mixed ! 

Sheepskin  declares  he  can  fix  it 

So  they  can't  filch  my  estate ; 
Shingle  says  Sheepskin'll  mix  it 

So  it  will  never  git  straight ; 
Sheepskin  says  lawyers  won't  bust  it 

Once  I  let  him  git  it  fixed, 
Shingle  says  he  wouldn't  trust  it — 

Gosh,  how  this  will-drawin's  mixed ! 

182 


THE   DISSENTERS 

Churchbell  says  Heaven — he  knows  it — 

Lies  right  this  way — knows  it  well; 
Choker  says  whoever  goes  it 

Won't  land  in  Heaven  but  Hell ; 
Churchbell  says  humblin'  th'  spirit 

Brings  a  man  right  to  th'  gate, 
Choker  says  that's  nowhere  near  it — 

Even  religion  ain't  straight! 

Capsule  is  treatin'— or  near  it — 

What  he  'calls  biliary  chill ; 
Churchbell  is  mendin'  my  spirit, 

Shingle  is  drawin'  my  will ; 
Talk  about  wisdom's  advances, 

Why,  when  it's  all  done  an'  said, 
Looks  like  I'm  takin'  long  chances 

Livin'  an'  dyin'  an'  dead! 


183 


AIRCASTLETOWN 

A  TRUCE  to  thy  struggling,  poor  mortal  who  strives; 

A  rest  to  thy  efforts  poor,  hungering  soul ; 
Come,  Need,  cast  away  all  thy  harrowing  gyves, 

And,  Sorrow,  I'll  take  thee  where  dreams  are  made 

whole. 
Here  in  the  dim  twilight  we'll  sit  by  and  dream ; 

Our  fancies  stray  far  as  the  light  thistledown, 
For,  red  as  the  sunrise,  the  golden  rays  gleam 

Over  there  on  the  hilltops,  near  Aircastletown. 

Ah,  light  as  the  leaf  on  the  wandering  breeze 

We'll  float  in  our  dreams  from  these  sorrows  away, 
Where  fruit  of  fulfillment  is  ripe  on  the  trees 

And  sunlight  of  hope  never  dims  night  or  day. 
So  here  at  the  twilight  we'll  float  with  the  tide 

Of  ungoverned  fancy,  nor  borrow  a  frown 
From  the  face  of  tomorrow,  but  carelessly  glide 

Down  the  stream  of  our  dreamings  to  Aircastletown. 


184 


AIRCASTLETOWN 

My  cottage  a  palace,  my  palace  a  King's, 

All  peopled  with  dreams  by  some  magic  :come  true ; 
My  wicket  a  drawbridge  that  never  once  swings 

At  the  summons  of  Care — and,  ah,  best  of  all,  You ! 
A  fig  for  the  cares  that  beset  me  the  day,  . 

The  smile  of  fulfillment  swift  conquers  my  frown, 
For  the  sails  of  my  dreams  to  the  winds  dip  away 

And  I'm  off  for  a  journey  to  Aircastletown. 

What  seek  ye  ?    Some  treasure  by  Caprice  denied  ? 

What  would  ye?    Some  toy  Fate  might  find  thee 

with  ease? 
What  ask  ye  ?    Some  fair  wind  and  flood  of  the  tide 

To  bring  home  thy  argosy,  far  on  the  seas? 
Then  truce  to  thy  dreamings — come  journey  with  me, 

On  wings  fine  and  airy  as  light  thistledown, 
And  here  at  the  twilight  come  sit,  dream,  and  see 

Thy  longings  come  true  there  in  Aircastletown. 


185 


YESTERDAY 

TAKE  ye  the  laurel  and  the  crown, 
The  hollow  pomp  and  cold  renown; 
The  loveless  toys  of  skill  or  art, 
The  wealth  that  mocks  the  aching  heart ; 
Ambition's  fire,  fame  or  degree, 
Take  every  sense  but  memory, 
From  future's  hopes  strike  every  ray, 
And  give  us  back  sweet  yesterday. 

Give  back  the  youth  that's  lived  its  day, 
The  sweet  song  sung  and  died  away ; 
The  hopes  that  lured,  the  voices  stilled, 
The  promises  all  unfulfilled; 
The  flowers  that  bloomed  to  fret  and  fade, 
The  joys  in  dust  and  embers  laid ; 
The  tears  that  fall,  wipe  them  away, 
And  give  us  back  sweet  yesterday. 

The  light  that's  lost  no  eye  shall  find ; 
No  hand  shall  stay  the  joys  that  wind 
Through  the  long  corridors  of  Time, 
Or  lure  with  lute  or  tempt  with  rhyme ; 
No  cry — no  prayer,  no  agony, 
Shall  stay  the  step  of  Time  for  thee, 
Nor  call  from  dust  and  doom  away 
The  flown  delights  of  yesterday. 


186 


THE  INEXORABLE 

SEEK  not  to  fathom  Fate's  decree ; 
Whatever  has  been  was  to  be. 
Not  all  the  sighs  of  Time  could  stay 
The  heavy  hand  she  seeks  to  lay; 
Not  all  the  tears  of  all  the  years 
Could  blot  one  page  from  yesterday. 

Seek  not  to  see  beyond  the  cloud, 
To  fathom  depths  beneath  the  shroud; 
Thy  little  knowledge  soars  in  vain, 
To  beat  its  wings  in  dust  again. 
It  is  thy  doom  to  dwell  in  gloom 
Till  Death  shall  see  thee  rest  or  reign. 

Thou  canst  alone  hope  some  wise  plan 
Pervades  the  destiny  of  man ; 
That  purposes  divine  are  blent 
With  what  seems  ;chance  or  accident. 
That  out  afar,  the  falling  star 
Sees  purpose  to  its  mission  bent. 

Thou  art  a  prisoner  here,  alone, 
And  helpless  as  the  sod  or  stone; 
Small  as  on  greatness  lay'st  thou  stress, 
Great  as  thou  know'st  thy  littleness. 
A  child  of  Chance  and  Circumstance, 
God's  infant  in  thy  helplessness. 


187 


THE    DEATH    OF    PRIDE. 

SHE  was  regal  and  proud. 

Her  love  bade  her  stay 

Where  her  child  tossed  and  moaned  and  the  swift 

nurses  glide; 
She  was  queenly  and  fair, 
With  the  rose  in  her  hair, 
But  her  love  lay  asleep  in  the  arms  of  her  pride. 

She  was  regal  and  proud. 

The  lights  glitter  and  glow, 

Dreamy  the  waltzes'  glad  glamor  and  glide. 

The  wail  of  a  child 

Swift  and  splendor  beguiled, 

She  smiled — for  her  love  lay  asleep  in  her  pride. 

She  was  stricken  and  bowed; 
Her  wet  eyes  sought  a  shroud, 
That  sheltered  a  child — and  her  anguish  was  wild ; 
But  was  it  all  vain 
If  pride  had  e'en  slain 

Her  love,  since  her  pride  lay  there  dead  with  her 
child? 


188 


THE   FISHERMAN 

WHEN  I  go  fishing  in  the  brook 

Of  dreams  for  verse,  you  see, 
I  only  have  to  bait  my  hook 

And  wait  quite  patiently; 
At  length  a  darting  little  thought 

Comes  nibbling  hereabout 
Until  my  line  grows  sharply  taut — 

Whereon  I  pull  it  out. 

Sometimes  I  wait  an  hour  or  so 

And  never  get  a  bite, 
And  casts  I  make  and  lines  I  throw, 

But  not  a  fish  in  sight; 
And  just  as  I  begin  to  reel 

The  line  in  my  despair 
There  comes  a  pull  and  I  can  feel 

The  faintest  nibble  there. 

And  then  there  runs  the  strangest  thrill 

All  through  me  and  I  wish 
That  everything  about  be  still 

Lest  I  should  lose  my  fish; 
And  after  many  a  dart  and  run 

(For  thoughts  are  slippery  things) 
I  get  it  hooked,  the  fight's  begun, 

And  how  my  good  reel  sings ! 

189 


THE   FISHERMAN 

But  how  it  darts  and  swims  about 

In  shallows  and  in  deeps, 
I  pay  my  line  still  out  and  out 

Where  the  white  water  sweeps; 
Betimes  I  see  the  flash  of  fin, 

I  know  I've  hooked  it  fast, 
And  then  I  reel  my  fish  line  in, 

The  thought  is  mine  at  last. 

And  sometimes  it's  a  noble  trout, 

A  marketable  fish, 
And  sometimes  it's  a  sickly  pout, 

Unfit  for  any  dish ; 
For  with  the  fates  that  rule  in  dreams 

No  bargains  may  be  struck, 
And  much  that  comes  from  Verse's  streams 

Is  just  plain  fisher's  luck! 


190 


A  REFLECTED  DIET 

EVERYBODY'S  dieting  some  ailment  to  be  quieting,  and 
hunger  goes  a-riotingwhere  plenty  once  made  gay ; 

Ban's  on  food  and  fishes,  and  we  have  no  need  for 
dishes,  and  the  stomach  of  me  wishes  it  could  find 
the  means  to  stay 

The  clamor  of  its  cravings,  for  its  food  is  mostly  shav- 
ings, and  it  hears  naught  but  the  ravings  of  the 
daily  diet  list; 

Nothing  much  for  dinner,  with  a  luncheon  somewhat 
thinner,  and  I  think  as  I'm  a  sinner  I  shall  melt 
away  in  mist. 

Mother's  eating  little  in  the  way  of  food  or  victual 

and  abates  no  jot  or  tittle  of  her  diet,  she's  so 

stout ; 
Father's  stomach  presses  on  his  liver  and  distresses 

him  extremely,  and  he  blesses  fasts  and  cuts  the 

foodstuffs  out; 
Breakfast,  ah,  'tis  cruel,  just  a  dish  of  mush  or  gruel, 

not  a  stick  of  worthy  fuel  for  this  furnace  pit  of 

mine; 
Lunch  is  somewhat  lighter,  and  I  pull  my  belt  up 

tighter,  and  my  hopes  grow  slight  and  slighter  as 

the  hour  comes  to  dine. 


191 


A   REFLECTED    DIET 

All  the  kitchen's  quiet  since  the  rage  began  for  diet, 

and  the  vision  of  a  pie,  it  would  quite  turn  my 

head,  I  swear; 
Steak  is  quite   forbidden,  all  the  roasting  pans  are 

hidden,  and  the  cook  is  crossly  chidden  if  she 

swells  our  bill-of-fare. 
How  my  pulse  would  quicken  could  I  look  upon  a 

chicken  and  see  rich  cream  gravy  thicken  in  the 

long  lost  frying-pan ! 
But  the  Code  Starvation  says  the  bodily  elation  from 

fried  .chicken  spells  damnation  to  the  health  of 

modern  man. 

Aunty  is  rheumatic,  and  with  language  quite  emphatic 

says  her  feelings  grow  ecstatic  on  her  diet  of  dry 

toast ; 
Uncle  who  is  gouty  says  he  has  no  bit  of  doubt  he 

will  be  cured  by  cutting  out  the  steak  and  stew 

and  broil  and  roast ; 
Rule  One-Twenty-Seven  of  the  Skim-milk  route  to 

Heaven  says  no  breadstuffs  made  with  leaven  may 

be  eaten,  so  pray,  tell 
What's  the  consolation  for  a  healthy  youth,  whose 

ration  is  a  share  of  gaunt  starvation  just  to  make 

some  others  well? 


192 


A  REFLECTED   DIET 

Mother's  getting  thinner  on  no  breakfast,  lunch  or 
dinner — and  her  diet  is  a  winner  for  the  stoutness 
she  complains; 

Father's  girth's  reducing  since  he  is  no  longer  using 
food  and  drink,  and  he  is  losing  all  his  once-so- 
fearful  pains ; 

Aunty's  getting  better,  keeps  her  diet  to  the  letter,  and 
dear  Uncle  he  is  debtor  to  the  scheme  of  toast  and 
tea. 

Diet  works  its  wonders  when  assimilation  blunders  and 
its  praise  the  family  thunders — but  it's  simply  kill- 
ing me ! 


Vol.  Ill— 18 


193 


THE  OLD   SUBSCRIBER 

I'VE  put  up  and  subscribed  till  I'm  fagged, 

All  the  way  from  ten  dollars  to  cents ; 
I've  been  "touched,"  I've  been  "worked," 
I've  been  "tagged," 

And  the  pressure  on  me  is  immense. 
I've  been  ticketed,  socialed,  pink-tea-d, 

For  heathen  and  less  favored  folk, 
And  my  purse  has  been  open  to  Need 

Till  now  it  is  I  who  am  broke. 

I  have  built  orphan  homes  and  town  halls, 

"Put  up,"  "come  across"  and  "made  good." 
I've  helped  repair  Jericho's  walls 

As  far  as  my  little  mite  would. 
"Patronized"  local  talent  in  art, 

Been  "in"  on  subscriptions  galore, 
Because  I've  had  never  the  heart 

To  show  any  one  to  the  door. 


194 


THE  OLD  SUBSCRIBER 

I  have  bought  Christmas  cards  for  Chinese, 

And  subscribed  for  new  pews  in  the  church ; 
I  have  helped  out  the  far-off  Burmese, 

I  couldn't  leave  them  in  the  lurch. 
I  have  reared  drinking  fountains  that  ought 

To  make  the  horse  rise  and  cry  blessed ; 
There  isn't  a  corner  or  spot 

They  haven't  put  me  to  the  test. 

I'm  the  one  and  original  soul 

Who  said :    "Put  my  name  down  for  five." 
I'm  the  real  summum  bonum — the  goal 

Of  every  cash-seeker  alive ; 
Just  look  like  Hard  Luck  on  the  shoals 

And  rattle  a  paper  at  me — 
I'm  the  Past  Grand  High  Priest  of  Good  Souls, 

The  real  "Old  Subscriber"— E.  Z. 


195 


A   CRITICISM 

A  DAMSEL  stood  upon  the  stage, 

A  stage-worn  damsel  she. 
A  critic  sat  and  heard  her  sing, 

A  world-worn  critic  he. 

"I'm  saddest  when  I  sing,"  she  sang, 

A  tear  stood  in  her  eye. 
He  sighed,  the  wretch,  and  muttered  to 

Himself:    "And  so  am  I." 

"I  cannot  sing  the  old  songs," 

She  sang.     Sighed  he — "  Tis  true, 

Two  kinds  of  songs  you  cannot  sing, 
The  old  ones — and  the  new." 

"Oh,  for  a  thousand  tongues  to  sing 

I'd  give  my  eyes,"  he  hears. 
"And  I,"  he  murmured,  "had  you  them, 

Would  give  away  my  ears." 

"Had  I  the  wings  of  any  dove," 

She  sang,  "I  would  rejoice." 
He  muttered:    "You  could  make  them  from 

The  feathers  in  your  voige." 


196 


NEMESIS 

THE  man  who  invented  the  women's  waists  that  button 

down  behind, 
And  the  man  who  invented  the  cans  with  keys  and  the 

strips  that  will  never  wind, 
Were  put  to  sea  in  a  leaky  boat  and  with  never  a  bite 

to  eat 
But  a  couple  of  dozen  of  patent  cans  in  which  was 

their  only  meat. 

And  they  sailed  and  sailed  o'er  the  ocean  wide  and 
never  they  had  a  taste 

Of  aught  to  eat,  for  the  cans  stayed  shut,  and  a  peek- 
a-boo  shirtwaist 

Was  all  they  had  to  bale  the  brine  that  came  in  the 
leaky  boat; 

And  their  tongues  were  thick  and  their  throats  were 
dry,  and  they  barely  kept  afloat. 

They  came  at  last  to  an  island  fair,  and  a  man  stood 

on  the  shore, 
So  they  flew  a  signal  of  distress  and  their  hopes  rose 

high  once  more, 
And  they  called  to  him  to  fetch  a  boat,  for  their  craft 

was  sinking  fast, 
And  a  couple  of  hours  at  best  they  knew  was  all  their 

boat  would  last. 

197 


NEMESIS 

So  he  called  to  them  a  cheery  call  and  he  said  he  would 

make  haste, 
But  first  he  must  go  back  to  his  wife  and  button  up 

her  waist, 
Which  would  only  take  him  an  hour  or  so  and  then 

he  would  fetch  a  boat. 
And  the  man  who  invented  the  backstairs  waist,  he 

groaned  in  his  swollen  throat. 

The  hours  passed  by  on  leaden  wings  and  they  saw 

another  man 
In  the  window  of  a  bungalow,  and  he  held  a  tin  meat 

can 
In  his  bleeding  hands,  and  they  called  to  him,  not  once 

but  twice  and  thrice, 
And  he  said:    "Just  wait  till  I  open  this  and  I'll  be 

there  in  a  trice !" 

And  the  man  who  invented  the  patent  cans,  he  knew 

what  the  promise  meant, 
So  he  leaped  in  the  air  with  a  horrid  cry  and  into  the 

sea  he  went, 
And  the  bubbles  rose  where  he  sank  and  sank  and  a 

groan  choked  in  the  throat 
Of  the  man  who  invented  the  backstairs  waist  and  he 

sank  with  the  leaky  boat! 


198 


SPINNING 

WE  sit  at  the  loom  and  spin  and  spin ; 

Thread  upon  thread  is  woven  in 

To  the  warp  of  our  lives,  and  they  twine  and  twine, 

Till  the  fabric  is  finished,  and,  coarse  or  fine, 

We  must  don  the  garment  we  weave  and  wear, 

The  kind  of  cloth  we  have  woven  there. 

The  looms  of  our  lives,  and  they  hum  and  hum ; 

Fine  threads  and  coarse  threads  to  the  weavers  come. 

Gossamer,  light,  are  the  finer  strands, 

The  threads  of  good,  and  our  busy  hands 

Seek  the  silk  from  the  tangled  thread, 

Or,  careless,  weave  with  the  coarse  instead. 

The  looms  of  our  lives,  and  are  never  still ; 
The  threads  of  good  and  the  threads  of  ill 
They  draw  and  twine  and  spin  and  spin, 
And  good  or  bad  is  woven  in 
With  evil  thought  or  with  good  deed  done, 
And  the  fabric,  finished,  lies  as  spun. 


199 


SPINNING 

Each  spins  for  himself  and  each  must  wear 

The  kind  of  cloth  he  has  woven  there ; 

The  fruit  of  thy  loom  thy  choice  may  hold, 

Be  it  sackcloth  dull  or  [cloth  of  gold, 

Be  it  silk  or  sack  it  is  thine  to  say, 

But  thy  choice  must  be  made  from  the  threads  today. 

The  looms  of  our  lives,  of  heart  and  brain, 
Each  with  its  shuttle  and  shaft  and  chain, 
Each  with  the  thread  the  weaver  fills, 
Each  to  weave  as  the  weaver  wills, 
The  looms  of  our  lives,  and  tread  and  tread, 
But  we  are  the  weavers  who  choose  the  thread. 


200 


THE   GIFT   OF   CHARITY 

Do  a  little  good  in  passing,  sow  some  kindness  every 

day; 
Stretch  a  hand  to  help  a  struggler  who  has  fallen  by 

the  way; 
Flash  a  smile  to  cheer  the  mourner,  plant  a  flower  to 

bud  and  bloom, 
Loose  a  ray  of  sympathy  to  pierce  with  sunlight  the 

thick  gloom. 

Stop  and  Counsel  with  the  erring,  help  the  fallen  one 
to  rise ; 

Find  thy  mission  on  the  earth  and  leave  the  stars  to 
light  the  skies; 

Whisper  comfort  to  the  sobbing,  let  the  sunshine  strug- 
gle through, 

And  when  Heaven's  portals  open  there  will  be  a  place 
for  you. 


2O I 


THE  GIFT  OF  CHARITY 

Be  a  minister  of  mercy  that  true  brotherhood  may  live ; 
Be  not  hasty  in  thine  anger,  doubly  ready  to  forgive ; 
First  to  see  a  kindly  action,  last  to  doubt  its  honesty, 
Leaden  be  thy  tongue  of  censure  and  thy  tongue  of 
praising  free. 

Slow  to  doubt  and  quick  to  cherish  every  kindness  of 

thy  friend ; 
Last  to  misjudge  his  intention,  and  the  foremost  to 

defend ; 
Kindness  knows  no  creed  or  caste  and  brotherhood  no 

pedigree, 
And  the  key  to  Heaven's  portals  is  the  Gift  of  Charity. 


202 


THE   DESERTERS 

SOMEWHERE  upon  the  sunny  air  the  Boss  imagines  he 

can  hear 
The  cries  that  rise  and  swell  and  bear  the  cadence  of 

a  mighty  cheer ; 
Somewhere  afar  the  bleachers  are,  the  turnstiles  and 

the  raucous  note 
The  umpire  brings,  set  on  a  par  with  growls  from  some 

trapped  grizzly's  throat. 
Somewhere  he  calls  them  strikes  or  balls,  somewhere 

the  red-legged  runner's  stride 
From  third  to  home  is  flattened  out  into  a  sweeping, 

screaming  slide. 
The  fever  grows  the  while  he  knows  the  fans  are 

gathering  afar — 
He  grabs  his  hat  and  stick  and  goes — he's  just  in  time 

to  catch  a  car ! 

The  listless  clerk  drones  o'er  his  work — far  in  the  dis- 
tance he  can  see 

The  bleachers  fill,  a  bitter  pill  it  is  for  him  that  he 
must  be 

Bent  o'er  his  books;  and  now  he  looks  across  those 
miles  with  hungry  eyes 

To  see  in  dreams,  the  struggling  teams  go  forth  to 
battle  for  the  prize. 


203 


THE    DESERTERS 

The  music  hears  he  of  the  spheres,  and  as  the  Boss 

goes  down  the  stair 
The  fever  grows,  for  well  he  knows  what  home-team 

heroes  will  be  there. 
With  guilty  joy  the  office  boy  he  tells  to  say  he's  called 

away 
By  urgent  press  of  business  and  won't  be  back  till  late 

that  day. 

The  click  and  whirr  of  typewriter  is  silent  now — she 

sits  and  sighs 
Upon  the  letters  left  for  her,  a  far-off  dreaming  in  her 

eyes; 
What  stunts  are  done  by  Mathewson!    She  hears  the 

echoes  rise  and  fall ; 
She  sees  the  pitcher  in  the  box  and  hears  the  umpire 

cry,  "Play  ball !" 
Oh,  that  she  might  see  some  proud  knight  drop  on  his 

knees — Odsblood  and  Zounds ! — 
And  hear  him  say,  "Fair  lady,  pray,  I  would  escort 

thee  to  the  grounds!" 
And  then,  oh  joy!  the  office  boy  approaches  her  and 

mutters,  "Mame, 
Get  on  your  lid ;  the  work's  all  did !    Let's  go  on  out 

and  see  the  game!" 


204 


PRIMROSE  PARSLEY'S  HOUSEHOLD 
HINTS 

I  USED  to  buy  my  plumes  and  pay  the  milliner's  out- 
rageous fee, 
But  I  keep  ostriches  to-day  to  raise  my  ostrich-plumes 

for  me; 
And  if  a  plume  grows  scant  and  thin,  as  plumes  are 

apt  to  now  and  then, 
I  lift  a  wing  and  thrust  it  in  and  let  it  grow  out  thick 

again ; 
My  ostrich  does  not  strut  or  sing,  as  prouder  birds  are 

wont  to  do, 
But  I  find  almost  every  spring  he  sheds  a  feather  boa 

or  two, 
So  thus  by  true  economy  my  savings  plethoric  have 

grown, 
I  think  that  every  family  should  keep  an  ostrich  of  its 

own. 

I  used  to  buy  my  silk  and  pay  a  fancy  price,  but  now 

I  keep 
My  own  silkworms  and  so  to-day  they  spin  my  dresses 

while  I  sleep; 
The  cost  of  keeping  them  is  small — I  think  the  plan 

works  very  well, 
And  if  I  do  not  use  it  all  I  always  have  some  silk  to  sell ; 

205 


PRIMROSE  PARSLEY'S  HOUSEHOLD  HINTS 

Thus  I  avoid  the  tariff  charge,  which  rises  to  enormous 

terms, 
For  while  the  tax  on  silk  is  large  there  is  no  duty  on 

the  worms ; 
I  let  them  out  each  day  at  dawn;  to  care  for  them  is 

never  hard, 
And  if  I  keep  them  on  the  lawn  they  always  spin  silk 

by  the  yard. 

I  used  to  buy  my  pearls — somehow  I  find  it  much 

the  better  way 
To  keep  a  few  pearl  oysters  now  and  pick  my  own 

pearls  day  by  day ; 
To  buy  a  necklace  in  the  store  is  not  a  matter  of  much 

sense 
When  I  can  raise  one  worth  much  more  at  home  with 

very  small  expense. 
And  when  I  wear  the  pearls  I  grow  I  am  the  cynosure 

of  eyes, 
For  people  do  not  seem  to  know  that  profit  lies  in 

being  wise ; 
Once  pearls  were  far  above  my  lot,  but  now  my  hands 

and  neck  and  brow 

Are  white  with  them — you  see  I've  got  an  oyster  work- 
ing for  me  now. 


206 


PRIMROSE  PARSLEY'S   HOUSEHOLD  HINTS 

I  used  to  buy  my  hair  barrettes,  but  lately  I  do  twice 

as  well — 
I  have  a  tortoise  now  who  lets  me  come  to  him  for 

tortoise-shell ; 
In  days  like  these,  when  naught  is  cheap,  to  practice 

true  economy 
Young  married  folk  should  always  keep  a  tortoise  in 

the  family; 
Thus  knowledge  is  the  source  of  power,  as  from  these 

words  you  plainly  see, 
And  Nature  in  an  idle  hour  works  wondrous  ends  for 

you  and  me; 
When  summer's  glorious  day  unfurls,  life  thus  becomes 

one  grand,  sweet  song, 
By  raising  shell  and  silk  and  pearls  and  ostrich-plumes 

I  get  along. 


207 


THE  LEPER  AND  THE  BELL 

AND  as  the  leper  with  the  bell, 

So  some  men  through  their  lives  must  bear 
Faces  that  serve  the  world  as  well 

To  tell  the  unclean  hiding  there. 
And  though  the  leper,  shunned,  conceals 

His  bell,  and  quiets  its  shrill  stroke, 
Some  quick,  unthinking  step  reveals 

Its  jingling  presence,  'neath  his  cloak. 


208 


SONG 

NOT  the  mysterious  music  of  the  heights, 

The  grandeur  of  harmony  whose  eagling  flights 

Wing  us  to  clouds  dim,  distant,  dark,  and  dull. 

Give  us  the  simple  songs  that,  free  and  full, 

Find  echo  in  our  hearts,  as  when  we  lift 

The  lattice,  that  through  all  the  house  may  drift 

The  red-robed  robin's  twittering  song,  that  wings 

Its  flight  by  the  vined  window  as  it  sings. 


Vol.  111—14  2O9 


THE  POWER  OF  LOVE 

THE  thunder  of  Hate  may  be  lost  on  the  gale, 
May  be  stilled  in  the  storm,  in  the  tempest  may  fail, 
But  the  whisper  of  Love  wings  unerring  its  way 
From  a  star  to  a  star,  through  the  ages  for  aye. 


210 


THE   DEAD 

SOME  sleep  under  the  sighing  pine, 

And  some  sleep  under  the  snow; 
Some  where  flowers  toss  and  twine, 

And  some  where  oceans  flow. 
Some  where  the  glacier  growls  and  grinds, 

And  some  'neath  the  cool,  green  sod; 
But  all  sleep  the  same  sleep,  and  waking  finds 

Each  one  in  the  arms  of  God. 


211 


THE  CUP  WILL  PASS 

THE  cup  will  pass, 

How  bitter  may  it  be ; 
Though  thou  mayst  drain 

Its  deepest  dreg  and  lee, 
A  sweetef  wine 

Some  day  will  brim  the  glass, 
The  draught  be  thine ; 

The  bitter  cup  will  pass. 


212 


THE  LOST  CHANCE 

UPON  the  stream  of  Life  we  see 

The  ship  of  Opportunity 
Cast  loose  from  wharf  and  pier, 

And  slip  to  sea ;  alone  we  stand, 
Forsaken  in  a  lonely  land, 

Beset  with  fear  on  fear. 
Across  the  wave  we  cry  and  call : 

"Ho!  Wait!  Ho!  Wait!  Ho!  Wait!" 
The  mocking-  echoes  fly  and  fall : 

"Too  late !    Too  late !    Too  late !" 


213 


LOST   OPPORTUNITIES 

SWEET  songs,  half  whispering  to  me  in  the  solitude 

Of  sweeter  melody  they  might  have  sung, 
And  phantom  flowers  that  scent  for  me  the  leafy  wood 

With  wraiths  of  the  perfume  they  might  have  flung. 
Sweet  faces  smiling  dimly  through  the  shadowy  light, 

Ghosts  of  the  full  perfection  that  had  shown, 
Had  not  the  sun  gone  down  ere  it  was  night, 

Leaving  but  shadows  of  the  unfulfilled,  alone. 


214 


